Gallows for the Wicked, Sanction for the Weeping
by KToon
Summary: It's more of the same. Pack up, move, pack up again. But Sam's just starting to get settled into this place. As tensions rise to a frightening level and the hunt they're on becomes much more complicated than they initially suspected, he comes to realize there are worse things than simply having to move to a different location. Hurt!Sam, Protective!Dean, Teen!Chesters
1. Chapter 1

_Hello, hello!_

_How have you guys been? Hopefully very well. In some of my other stories, I've teased this release, and it's finally here! I began this story in August of 2018, and just recently completed it. It totals at 50k words, making it the longest story I have ever written._

_I would like to give my profound thanks to my two betas, whom I found through this lovely website, Greyline and Jetainia. Both have worked so vigilantly to improve this story, and I am beyond grateful for how much better you've made it. My dearest thanks to you and your lovely dedication, ladies._

_Warnings:_ _They are the Winchesters, and henceforth they cuss like a sailor. There's also graphic depictions of violence._

_Please leave a review if you get the chance, even if it's a simple one-worded compliment or constructive-criticism. It would mean a lot to know this time and effort pleased someone out there._

_Since this story is completed, posting will be every Saturday. There are ten chapters, each between 4k-6k words._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

"Hey, idiot! Get your lazy backside out of the covers and move it before Dad has your ass, man. He ain't going to be happy if he finds out you overslept."

Sam groans and opens one eye. The bright sun slams into view and he immediately closes it again in disgust, flopping over onto his stomach; the cheap covers scratch his skin and he resists the urge to claw at the itchiness, opting instead to place the mysteriously-stained pillow over his head—no move is too far to escape the burning light of the sun.

"Dude," Sam mumbles from beneath the pillow, "what time is it even?"

The pillow is yanked harshly away. Sam protests and tries to grab for it, but Dean tosses it across the room where it lands in a neat little heap of floppy stuffing and scratchy case.

"Time for you to be up and out, bitch. You're lucky Dad isn't awake either, or you'd be running laps before school," Dean says. He pauses, glancing down at his watch. "Which, for your information, starts in a little over twenty minutes."

Sam shoots up out of bed, both eyes now wide and suddenly alert. "Twenty minutes?" he repeats, urging himself off the mattress. "Dean! I've got a trigonometry test today for first period—if I miss it, it's gonna be a freakin' problem."

Quickly moving to the bathroom, he snatches his toothbrush and simultaneously starts trying to straighten his dusty bangs into something that might allow him to pass for a normal teenager instead of some monster from the depths of hell.

"Not my fault you didn't wanna wake up," Dean points out reasonably, loitering in the doorway. "I mean, you could always look up to your big-bro and not have to worry about that anymore. All it takes is a few fallacious documents, some puppy-dog eyes, and _bam_! Free from classes."

Sam grabs a towel on the counter and launches it at his brother. Dean dodges.

"I'm not going to become some apathetic excuse for a man like you. And either way, _fallacious_? I didn't know you knew any words a third grader couldn't spell."

"Excuse for a man?" Dean repeats, scowling. He puffs his chest out and tugs hard on each side of his unzipped leather jacket as if demonstrating something important. "I, for one, get way more smokin' chicks in a day than you'll ever get in a year. I wouldn't call that an excuse."

Sam coughs. "Slut."

_This_ gets a reaction from Dean. Before he knows it, the same towel he'd lobbed at his brother now smacks _him _in the face. He dislodges it from his head and, catching sight of his own reflection, tosses Dean a dirty glare; Sam's hair, previously carefully flattened and tamed, looks like it's trying to crawl off his head again. He frowns at it. Stupid hair. Stupid brother.

Dean chuckles. "That's for the comment. And see, since I'm such a nice person, I even made you some toast. S'on the kitchen table—grab it on your way out. Sorry, can't drive you today—got a shift down at the garage first thing, and it's the complete opposite way from Crestmont. So, I guess—" he takes a moment to flash his shit-eating grin, "—run, Forrest, run!"

Once he's done in the restroom, Sam grabs his backpack from under the bed and spends a moment ensuring all his notebooks and supplies are in there. Shouldering it, he opens the door to his and Dean's shared room and flips his brother off. Without even trying to discern the individual insults in Dean's litany of cussing, Sam's out the main cabin door with toast in hand, starting off at a swiftish walk as he carelessly crams toast into his mouth. If he doesn't choke to death, it'll be a miracle.

Thick, humid air washes over him as a wall of heat, and he instantly wishes he hadn't thrown his jacket on amidst the morning chaos; a precious few seconds are wasted removing it. He checks his watch. Man, it's only eight and the temperature's already blazing like an oven on full broil. Why are they in this scorching hellhole again?

Scratch that. Not eight—five minutes _till _eight.

The watch used to be Dean's, one of the many hand-me-downs Sam's received in his lifetime. Whether it be shirts or shoes, he always gets Dean's old shit. Mostly he hated it, but the watch stuck with him and he's come to love it with a strange sort of affection; it feels like having a constant connection with his brother, and no matter how babyish that sounds, that means something to him.

Four minutes now... Four minutes until he physically needs to be on the school grounds. Four minutes till the first bell will sound. Any later and he's tardy; he's already got two of those against him this semester, so another will send him straight to detention.

Sam quickens his pace to a brisk walk, which soon becomes a jog.

The problem with getting detention is that, for one, it won't look good on his record, and that secondly, with all the training their dad's been putting them through recently right after school, it'll only make matters even worse between the two of them. He and his dad have been wound tight with the new transfer, Sam growing steadily more and more frustrated with the man who has effectively become his drill sergeant rather than a parental figure.

At this point, they've been here for a month already. Sam's just beginning to settle in with new friends and studies, though he knows the three of them will move on soon enough. They always do.

The monster they're here hunting is unknown to them—even Sam's got no idea what it is. What he does believe is that this thing's not quite an issue. For the four weeks that they've been here, nobody's been killed. When Caleb shot them a call, initially even his Dad's opinion was that it was just some wild animal loose out here. Dangerous, to be sure, but hardly supernatural. The fact all the dead livestock examined showed puncture wounds from sharp fangs and were coated in a strange type of residue unidentifiable as belonging to a known wild animal changed his father's mind faster than Sam could form a proper objection. Almost before he had time to pack, they were on the road again, heading for Mooresville, North Carolina, and destroying everything Sam had managed to build in Illinois during the werewolf hunt.

Sam finds it puzzling that this allegedly supernatural creature has yet to actually take a human life. If it hasn't hurt anybody, why are they hunting it? It's not done anything wrong to _deserve_ being killed, so who gives them the right to play executioner?

His dad believes this thing's building up to something larger, something more than a pile of dead beef. A massacre, the man said, going so far as to present Sam with an analogy of how serial killers work up to their main goal by starting off skinning small animals.

Sam disagreed. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?

So much for the right to a fair trial.

With the school in sight and only one minute left before the bell would ring, Sam leaves his thoughts behind and near-sprints up the stairs, taking two a go. Beside the nasty look the resource officer gives him, he's on time and faces no dire consequences for cutting it so fine.

Soon after that, the bell resounds sharp through the halls; Sam releases a sigh of relief, not having quite believed he got here in time until the bell rang to confirm he had. He cuts through the crowded corridor, making a beeline for his locker. It takes a few seconds fumbling with the lock to get it open, his mind reeling through the half-dozen different combinations he's had at various schools in as many months. When the lock finally clicks open, he jams the textbooks from his satchel inside, exchanging them for his trigonometry notes, which he briefly skims over as he slams the locker shut and turns to make his way to class.

Intent on last minute recap for the trig test, he is moving fast and not at all looking where he's going. Pretty much instantly, he walks right into...a wall? Feels like a wall.

Stumbling, he tries to catch his footing, the instincts of a hunter kicking in. It manages to save him. Sort of. He successfully straightens up and doesn't end up in a heap on the ground, anyway.

Looking up from his notes to see what he ran into, he finds not a wall, but a really large, muscled senior standing in his way. The boy's chestnut hair is fancily swept back into a curl and his eyebrows are scrunched up in an expression that can only be described as vexation, aggravated to have had his books knocked down by a junior. Clearly, the fact that it was unintentional did not faze him in the slightest.

He knew who it was, even though the guy most likely had no clue Sam even existed until now. Trey—the quarterback of the Crestmont football team. Classic. Standing next to him were his two equally large friends Dawson and Brendon. Sam internally kicks himself for putting himself on their radar. They were the literal definition of harassers, going around the school like they owned it, mostly picking on freshmen. Their talent for athletics keeps them well off authority's radar for troublemakers, unfortunately, meaning any of their nastier stunts are always glossed over without a second thought.

Trey looks him up and down for a few moments, scrutinizing, and Sam almost wants to shrink back into the lockers under the guy's contemplating gaze. Except, before he even has the time to consider that might not be such a terrible idea, he's grabbed by the shoulders and shoved hard back into the metal behind, head impacting strongly against the lockers. Sam's arms snap back to keep him from falling to the ground, and through the ringing in his ears he just barely catches the words, "Watch where you're going, freak," lingering on the heavy atmosphere created by the multitude of onlookers.

Sam grits his teeth against the pain just now rising behind his eyes. Great—a trig test with a headache. Maybe he should've taken Dean's 'free pass' after all.

Like a good little follower, Dawson picks up Trey's books and hands them off to his buddy before proceeding to strut off to wherever their classes were, the other two close behind, all three of them ignoring Sam completely.

Sam rubs the back of his head, feeling a bump beginning to rise beneath his mop of hair—it stings. He bites back a groan.

The silence in the hall is overt. A few dozen students ought to make a lot more noise. Glancing around, he finds the half the population of the hallway staring at him. He clutches his notes to his chest and gives them his brother's best 'staring down an apparition with nothing but a gun full of rocksalt' glare.

"What're you all looking at?"

Sam has been a victim of bullying since the 3rd grade—by now he's used to it. The harsh words, the bystanders. All of it. He's not embarrassed anymore and never will be. Granted, he probably just made things a hell of a lot worse for himself at this school, but what was there to do but try and block out the jabs and jeers. It's not like he'll be here long, anway.

Catching sight of one of his new friends standing near the front of the crowd, Sam shakes his head and begins moving purposefully toward him. Noah rolls his shoulders and palms the back of his own neck in embarrassment, then offers Sam an apologetic look. "Hey, look, I'm sorry—" he began.

Sam cuts him off sharply. "Don't worry about it."

He means it, too. He isn't angry his friend didn't stand up for him how most people would be. Noah's on the more popular side of things, which doesn't actually place Sam too terribly low in the rankings, but he knows Noah didn't want to ruin his reputation by fruitlessly fighting with the seniors, and Sam didn't hold that against him. Sam's going to be here a max of a month, maybe two—before he knows it, he'll be gone again, forgotten with all of the other students. Everybody else, on the other hand, has a notoriety to uphold, so Sam can hardly blame his friends when they don't want to protect him from things he can protect himself from. Well, correction, _mentally_ protect himself from. With all of the attacks against the walls in his mind, he thinks it had become decently durable—not very susceptible to emotional trauma. Part of him is aware that someday that imperviousness might break...but it won't if Sam can help it.

"Don't worry about it?" Noah echoes, surprised. "What do you mean don't worry about it? They shoved you into a fucking locker."

Sam sets off down the hall, Noah by his side, praying he'll still reach his class on time. "I mean," he explains, "I don't care whether you step in or not to defend me, dude. I've been a target since I could barely speak, and I don't expect that to magically change now. I've had time to get used to it, time to adjust. I've also had time to pick out why they do what they do, and the majority of the time it's because they have some sort of shit going on in their own lives. _Them_ though," he scoffs, jerking his head in the direction Trey and his cronies went off to, "that's just coming from being spoiled and a brat. They find it fun."

Noah's brows go up, perhaps to protest that _no_, he _should _have defended his friend, but if that's what he wants to say, he doesn't. His jaw tightens but the rest of the walk to class is silent, and just as they slide into their seats, the first period bell sounds.

Taking one last look at his notes, Sam tucks his stuff away in his bag and gets out a pencil, preparing himself to ace the exam. Headache be damned.

* * *

By fourth period (which in this school is the end of the day due to the fact they run on a block schedule), Sam is dead tired and just about ready to lay down and sleep right on the school's cold, tiled floor. His hands hurt from the essay he had to write in English, and his mind aches from the copious amounts of word problems he had to tackle in both chemistry and trig, breaking them down into their smallest component parts and assessing them until nothing made sense anymore.

He's usually good at managing his schoolwork, but after changing to this school right smack in the middle of first semester, the make-up work is phenomenally intense. Sometimes, he wonders why he's bothering; he'll only have to do it all over again somewhere new next month. If he wouldn't go crazy from the lack of contact with normal kids his age, and didn't know there was no hope of learning anything academic, he'd let his father homeschool him just for a little consistency in curriculum. Not that his dad's curriculum would be consistent in a helpful way... It would just be more of his drill sergeant crud and no sums. Consistently.

Goodbye future.

Heading to the parking lot, he scans the spots for his brother's prominent Impala... He couldn't see it. Sam sighed in despair.

Dean had gotten his own car at the age of sixteen, yet Sam couldn't manage to convince his father to get _him_ one. He can see the man's point in not needing three cars to drive around, but if Dean's not going to keep his promise to pick Sam up from school instead of forcing him to walk home, then he either damn well needs a vehicle, or at least some way to get him back faster. Not every school is ten minutes away from their hole-up.

Adjusting his grip on his pack, he bites his lip to reign in his discontentedness. It isn't his brother's fault. In fact, Dean's probably working his ass off at the local auto shop to provide a small sum for their family of three, which is more than could be said for their dad. After all, they need some way to get food and that's pretty much the only option. Better than credit card fraud, anyway. At least it puts Dean's vehicle engineering skills to use and, if Sam's not mistaken, his brother actually enjoys working there.

Either way, right now Dean's probably working overtime and Sam can't bash him for that. It's one of those things you just can't control.

By the time he arrives back at the cabin, it's a good fifteen minutes since he realised nobody was coming to pick him up. He takes out his own, personal key and slides it into the lock on the screen. Doing the same with the door behind, he pushes it open and sighs in contentment as the blissfully cool air conditioning greets him. After trekking through the blazing hot weather, it's a relief to be somewhere kept at a more comfortable temperature.

He sets his school supplies down on the wooden table at the center of the welcoming kitchen, and then snags a granola bar from the pantry. Nobody appears to be home right now. He figures his father's either off gathering stuff they'll need for the hunt, or trying to get more information on what they're dealing with here. Between a mountainous backlog of assignments and evening training, Sam's got some research done; unfortunately, he's not turned up anything useful. At this point, he's categorically decided to leave the matter be and focus more on catching up on his schoolwork, since the amount is legitimately towering over him. No matter which school he's at, he needs to keep his grades up if he wants any chance of making higher education.

It's not something Sam's thought about in too much depth, but every now and then when he's got nothing to do or is feeling particularly down, he wonders what it would be like if he didn't live this life. What if he could actually be normal? To him, what even _is_ normal? He presumes it's something in which he can return to a home that will always be there for him, or a family that'll greet him with a warm dinner every day after work.

He laughs inwardly.

To hunters, that sort of life is practically unfathomable—nobody can have it and nobody complains about not getting it. Except Sam. Sam's always been the exception.

Hunters have a job to do, and they know it—_he_ knows it. They save lives, even when not everybody is grateful. In fact, every possible thing works against them every minute of the day—including odds. The law enforcement does jack shit, causing more harm than good with their procedures and closed-off attitudes, and other people look at hunters as though they have three heads and a lion's mane for shirt collars. It's kind of hard to do your job when people hate you.

Millions of other people live out perfectly serene lives, yet by chance, Sam's part of a hundred-thousandth percentage that dedicate their days to fighting monsters that would scare most people out of their minds, all because of what happened when he was six months old. Not that any member of his family will talk about that night, but he's long managed to put together most all the details. Their mother died in a fire on the ceiling of his nursery, her death clearly caused by some mysterious supernatural creature. It's pretty easy to deduce his mother died protecting him...and sometimes, in the middle of the night staring at yet another skeezy motel ceiling, Sam wonders if it would've been better had his mother not come into his room that night and saved him. If he'd died, his mother would still be alive, and both Dean and Dad would be protected from all the monstrous crap that overwhelmed their lives nowadays. Maybe it's a selfish thought, but it still doesn't change the way he feels about it. He should be dead, but he isn't—_she_ is.

Pulling out his French assignments, he starts out on the translations. He isn't necessarily concentrating though, the words blending together as an abstract smudge in his brain. Too many things chase each other in circles around his mind—it doesn't feel like the right time to be working on foreign language classwork for a school he won't be at much longer.

He sighs heavily, changing his mind on the homework and instead pulling out the laptop that he received as a gift from Bobby on Christmas. Booting the old thing up, Sam taps his fingers rhythmically across the keys, humming a good Zeppelin song he and Dean sing quite often.

_So if you wake up with the sunrise,_

_and all your dreams are still as new,_

_and happiness is what you need so bad—_

_girl, the answer lies with you._

By the time the screen lit up, three minutes had passed and Sam had polished off the rest of his snack. Considering, he pauses a moment before searching up the website for Carrigan Farms, the pads of his fingertips lightly gliding across the keyboard in a routine dance. Research isn't like a bike—it's a rollercoaster you're strapped into and can never get off. It's a habit. Impossible to break.

Most of the animal attacks happened there—twelve cows, six pigs and seven cats all mutilated to nothing but intestines and bone. It's pretty suspicious for sure, Sam agrees insofar as that much, but why isn't this thing moving on to larger things yet? It's hardly padding out the usual monster résumé.

He surfs the page for a few minutes, reading up on the owners and everything about the farm's past. Again. Al and Kelly Carrigan are a happily married couple, living out in the beautiful countryside for the farmland—and maybe the views as well. They even host hayrides for children and students, occasionally even going as youthful as preschoolers. Sam knows the animals that were targeted have nothing to do with the people who run the place, striking them off the list of suspects in his mind.

Despite this, he dutifully scrolls down to where their phone number is listed, picks up his own device and dials. It rings precisely four times before the line is picked up and a cheery voice greets him:

"_Carrigan Farms, this is Kelly. How may I help you?"_

Sam's a little surprised to find out the owner also answers calls to the place, given there must be a lot and he's called before—something which had previously earned him nothing but monotone employees who make it sound like _their_ life sucks ass—but disregards it, happily praising himself on his luck to find someone who actually knows what they're talking about for once.

He pulls out one of his fake cards and says in his most mature and formal voice, "Hello, Mrs. Carrigan. My name's Sam Tycone. I'm an intern for the Fish & Wildlife service in Mooresville. I was contacting you about the recent animal incapacitations you reported a few days ago?"

There comes a short silence over the line, aside from some rustling of papers, before the woman finally speaks again. "_An intern?_ Really? _My pets are being skinned and killed, and they send an _intern _to call me?"_

Sam breathes hard out his nose in annoyance. The gears in his mind turn at a creaky double-speed as he scrambles to come up with a plausible explanation, something that backs up his story.

"Ma'am, with all due respect," he starts, "I am only reporting your statements to my bosses. I don't have control over this, and I wish it could be any other way to support your needs. But for my sake, I can't refuse, and instead I am here to record what you say. If you don't mind, of course." He smiles over the line, not that it would do any good.

Kelly seems to debate this for a moment, and more papers are shuffled in the background.

Finally, she gives an apologetic response. "_Yes, I'm sorry. It's just...things have been really stressful around this place lately, and I just want to get this whole thing sorted out and over with. I want my animals safe. I've improved the fencing, the enclosures, everything—yet somehow, something is still getting to them...I just want it to stop." _

Sam nods in sympathy, understanding where she's coming from—he could do with it being over himself.

"I get it, Mrs. Carrigan," he reassures. "That's why I'm here. So if you want, could you please tell me what happened in your own words?"

It's night by the time Kelly finishes her story of how every morning she would find one of her animals dead. Apparently, it's never the same animal two mornings in a row, but the corpse is always found in the same spot, surrounded by berries of some sort. (Again, those are never the same. Blueberries, blackberries, huckleberries—it didn't seem to matter so long as they were berries.)

The first one was a shock, as they hadn't ever encountered a problem with any of their livestock being killed before; it was a young calf named Josie, found lying in the centre of the grazing pasture. A circle of raspberries had been placed around the decimated body, a few flowers in the mix. The flowers-and-berries presentation described certainly conflicts with the surely gruesome sight of the animals remains, and Sam really doesn't know what to make of it. Along with the blood and bones, the only evidence left was a tooth—a fang, as Kelly had described—and a weird type of blue substance. Nobody seems quite sure what that stuff is yet, though the veterinarian who did a necropsy—no, Sam's not joking. A necropsy they payed for, on nothing but strings of ravaged meat—claimed blood loss was most likely what killed the poor animal, before the trauma and teeth.

This changes things a lot. Something sucked these young animals dry of blood before finally eating them for supper. This also means that whatever this is, is doing this for food. Sam had taken notes in the same half-blank notebook he used mostly for his hunting research; at the bottom of a page he jots down and triple-circles the word _harmless?_ as a question of whether this thing is a legit threat. He gets so engrossed in checking and double-checking his tight, scribbled words that he fails to fully acknowledge the soft purr of the Impala's engine, indicating Dean's return.

The door to the cabin opens and in comes the broad, confident form of his older brother clutching a takeout bag in one hand and two plastic shopping bags in the other. Sam looks up sharply at his entrance, raising an eyebrow at the food; the side of the bag reads _Ed's Venue _and it exudes the scent of grease and burgers into the room. He scrunches up his nose. Great, cow cholesterol and carbs. Would it kill Dean to buy a vegetable for once in his life?

"Hey, Sammy," Dean greets with an attempted wave, takeout bag doing its best to abort the movement and making it seem halfhearted. Like Dean isn't so happy to see him after all. The older boy rolls his shoulders and cocks his head questioningly. "You going to help me here, or…?" He motions demonstratively with his laden arms.

"Oh," Sam says slowly, leaning back in his seat, "I don't know. This is pretty entertaining."

"Shuddup," Dean mutters.

Stumbling over to the table with his burden, Dean drops the lot atop it... Directly onto Sam's notes. The papers wrinkle under the weight and there's a small sound of tearing paper, causing him to shoot a disbelieving look at his elder brother.

"What?" Dean asks innocently. "Sorry, that your homework or something?"

Sam swipes a hand through his messy hair and shakes his head. "No, jackass. It's notes for the so-called hunt that we're on. And which," he gestures angrily before him, "is now completely crumpled and probably impossible to read."

Dean points a very pissed off finger at him. "Hey, you need to watch your fucking language, bitch."

Sam laughs at this hypocrisy. He slides back his chair with a teeth-shattering squeal of wooden feet against tiled floor and comments, "Like _you_, you mean? All right, you _jerk_. That better?"

"Much."

"You're a dick."

"Vagina."

Sam reels back, disgusted. "What the hell, dude?"

"Sorry," Dean says with a strange smirk, "I thought we were talking about our sex lives. That girl down at the garage who came in to get her old Cadillac fixed up. Phew," he whistles, a long, appreciative sound, "now _that_ was some real meat. How's yours been? Oh...wait. You ain't got one."

Sam scoffs, lifting the bag of greasy food off of his paper. He grimaces at the splodgy yellow stains it left, suddenly overcome with the urge to smack his brother in the face. Oddly, he's been getting that feeling a lot recently. A lot just today, even. Looks like Dean didn't pick him up from school because he was trying it on with some girl at the auto shop... Nice. What a dick.

Somehow, Sam manages to restrain his response to this realization with a curt, "Very mature, Dean."

After ripping the bag open from where the staple was holding it together, Sam pulls out the contents. Inside are two meticulously wrapped burgers, as well as a salad. There's also a plastic container that, upon further inspection, turns out to have grilled chicken and broccoli inside.

Sam instantly feels bad.

Dean nervously glances at him. "Burgers are for me and Dad, if he ever wants to come back." There's a fragile amount of anger in his words. "Got chicken for you, and whatever the hell that salad is."

"Thanks," Sam mumbles somewhat contritely, opening the lid and grabbing a plastic fork. He's just begun to dig into his dinner when he halts, something coming to mind for a second. "What did you mean by, 'if he ever wants to come back?'" he wonders with mild concern.

Dean's uninterested. Unwrapping the waxed paper around his hamburger, he carelessly replies, "Don't you remember what's coming up?" He takes a bite and continues to talk around the food stuffed in his mouth. "It's October 29th, dude. Dad's probably at some joint getting shit-faced. He ain't gonna to be home until tomorrow morning...late tonight if we're lucky."

Sam falls silent at that, realization setting in. It's only four days until his mother's death anniversary? How could he forget something so paramount? Of _course_ that was why his father's been so distant recently; their mother died nearly seventeen years ago to the day. Suddenly, everything makes sense—the drinking, the extra arguments about the transfer, the cruel words tossed and battered back and forth that were simply placeholders for tense feelings. Sam almost feels ashamed for giving his dad a hard time this month.

Sam never grieves their mother as much as Dean or his father, and when he actually does, he never does it in the same way. His mourning is a constant ache at the back of his mind, never forgotten, never releasing the grip it had on him in the minutest way. Every day he dreams of the beautiful woman he's seen only in photographs and longs for the security of a mother that he's never known. While the rest of his little family lost a wife and mother whom they loved and cherished—who loved and cherished _them_—he simply lost all possibility of ever experiencing the unconditional love that a mother bears for her child; to Sam, the concept of such was a murky, abstract thing—he'd never had it, but knew he wanted it. More than anything. Perhaps even more than total normality.

The closest he's come to experiencing a relationship like this is back when Caleb still had his wife, Tyler. She was the closest he has ever come to having that. Likely, the closest he ever _will_ come.

Sam doesn't fully remember Tyler, but what he does recall is her small frame and kind smile, eyes inviting—warm and safe. He remembers that terrible day he stood over her pyre, her skin cold in death, flames cleansing her still form of the vivid, angry cuts slashed deep into her chest by a werewolf on a rampage.

No, he'll never know love like that. He's long given up on finding a mother, or even a woman who may care about him as one would. What's the point? If he did find one, she'd probably just end up burned to ash, too.

"I'm sorry," Sam amends sincerely, shifting his mind back to the present.

"Yeah, me too," Dean agrees, eyes shuttered, staring down at what was left of his food.

The rest of the dinner passes in a swell of silence, pregnant and stilted. There are no more sarcastic remarks, no more playful jokes or mocking laughter. This in itself is unusual, if overall not surprising, given the way their previous anger and frustration had just been dampened—ninety degrees outside and it still rained in their cabin. Sam can't help but feel he's the cause of it.

They do talk about the case a little, to try and break the discomfort; however, it doesn't take much before Sam knows he has to back off. Dean's already at his breaking point. Sam told him about the clockwork deaths and the rings of fruit, going into how all the details on this one are just so odd. When his brother asked him how he was getting his information, resulting in Sam admitting he impersonated a government intern, he received a clap on the back. It was a mistake to go on to provide his opinion of how he believed this hunt was some creature that simply relied on these animals for food. Like a switch, Dean immediately flipped from proud at his baby brother's ingenuity to annoyed at his disregard for the importance of the hunt..

"Whether this thing's going after long pig or not, it's still evil, Sammy. Ain't no argument there. It's supernatural, we kill it."

Sam didn't protest this, not wanting to start another fight, but on the inside, he really wanted to. This is what he's been asking all along... This thing isn't hurting people at all, beyond a bit of emotional stress over the loss of Kelly's 'pets', and yet they're still going to hunt it down, pin it in one place, and kill it?

It's not right.

With his retelling of Kelly's story, a new thought had even jumped into his mind: _Maybe the ring of berries is an apology?_ This thing obviously doesn't _want_ to kill, hence the surrounding commemerance.

So, instead of arguing his point, he just nods tiredly, holding back a sigh of long-sufferance. Dean and Dad will never change. Never see the countless shades of grey their world is made up of.

"You know that, right, Sammy?"

Sam looks up, carefully maintaining a subdued, stoney façade, and responds plainly, "Yeah. Of course, Dean. I know that."

He adds a smile to the mix to make it more convincing—he learned early on in his life that the smallest of grins can make a big difference in winning someone over, whether it be in a quarrel or simply avoiding a question as to whether you're all right.

Quietly, he gathers up what little stuff he has from the table and decides to call it a night. Some extra sleep never goes amiss.

That night, Sam's restless, however. He keeps tossing and turning, seemingly incapable of getting even remotely comfortable. At some point very late, he hears the smack of the screen door banging against its frame and knows his father has returned. Sam doesn't get up to welcome him, quite sure it would be a wasted effort, and most certainly does not consider himself lucky.

Instead, he turns his back to Dean's bed and the door beyond, facing the wall. Finally, some eternity later, he manages to doze off into a dreamless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Posting every Saturday," she says, then doesn't post on Saturday._

_I'm sorry. I got sick on my vacation, and completely forgot about it. Thanks so much for the reviews!_

_Also, I forgot to mention there will be historical, lore, and medical __inaccuracies. I made it the best I could, though, so hopefully it's not too glaring._

_Please, please, please review. It means a lot. _

_Thank you so much to my two lovely betas: Greyline and Jetainia. They worked hard on this, and I appreciate all they did. _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Sam appreciates his brother for a lot of things. He really does. Take, for example, the fact he has legitimately dedicated his entire life to raising his little brother into their sparse family's rural, on-the-road world of cheap motels and stale cereal. No matter the circumstances, his brother's always put Sam before himself—never vice versa. Sure, he's _tried_ to do stuff for Dean that required him putting his own well-being on the line, but his brother's never let it get that far.

So yeah, Sam appreciates that Dean gives him food when it's most needed, late at night in musty, aged motel rooms with stained ceilings and flickering bathroom lights. He appreciates Dean for providing him with the means to go to high school and receive an actual, physical education that doesn't include supernatural creatures trying to kill him. He appreciates that Dean's given up his freedoms, his hope for an independent life far from hunting and their dad's crazy revenge obsession, to instead be shackled to his selfish younger brother, to take care of him because he knows their father will never step up and do it right.

What Sam _doesn't_ appreciate is when Dean wakes him up an hour earlier than normal. Especially not when it's still dark out.

Something's shaking his feet. For a moment, in the space between sleep and sense, he thinks perhaps something's come to eat them. A monster here to cleave him from his rest. Then he tiredly raises his head, with far less vigor than he would if he were actually being eaten by some creature, and looks up and behind him. He blinks a few times to adjust to the dim lighting—here, the bedroom light flickers, too—and stares up blankly at his brother's form as he shrugs off his jacket and puts on a plain grey tee.

"Mornin' princess," he says as Sam sits up. "Hope you have all of your school supplies ready and got some rest, 'cause Dad wants us ready to train within five."

Sam hangs his legs over the edge of the bed, dragging his palms across his eyes and rubbing the sleep from their corners. "What kind of training?" he asks, voice guttural and hoarse with lingering fatigue.

"Sparring," is the no-nonsense, one word response. Sam moans pitifully. "But don't worry, Dad's got a killer headache from his hangover. He ain't joining in, just watching us to make sure we do it right. I'll go easy on you." Dean winks and tosses a workout shirt and a set of loose pants onto Sam's lap. "Suit up. And seriously, dude, don't screw up or try to pick a fight with the man today, _please_. He's already unsettled—that would just make matters worse."

Sam throws his new shirt on and makes to object, before his mouth snaps shut again. His brother was right. Whenever he argued with his father, Dean got caught in the middle; it had to be haggering to constantly have to deal with your only two family members at each other's throats all the time.

"I promise I won't," Sam says decisively.

He means it, too. This week's going to be tough on all of them.

For a brief moment, Sam feels like collapsing back onto the comfortable(ish) mattress and just going back to sleep, like throwing in the towel without even getting in the ring. In fact, he never wants to get off this bed—ever. Beds are totally an acceptable place to spend your entire life, right?

"Hey, asshole—up and at 'em," his brother reprimands. "I ain't getting punished for your laziness."

Taking one more longing look back at the beckoning covers, Sam finally pushes himself up and puts on the sports shorts, combs his hair into something halfway decent (that's a lie—it's still a complete mess) and makes his way to the kitchen, leaving his bed unkempt and messy.

Dean follows. When Sam comes to the screen door, he pauses a moment and turns back around to face his brother.

"So, what's it going to be today?" he asks, wearing a small smirk.

His brother pretends to think it over, obviously debating over what could best be used to taunt his younger sibling with. "Hm…" he hums, scratching his head. "How about...whoever wins gets dibs on the fresh pie I brought back yesterday?"

"The _entire_ pie?" Sam confirms.

A slow nod. "The entire pie."

"It's on."

Whenever the planned training is to fight each other, they always put down a wager. Their father's never known about it because if he did, most likely they would be running five miles a day, _every_ day—for a month. John would call their bet childish, a distraction, careless horseplay when they should obviously remain very serious about molding themselves into better monster fighting machines. So, they ensure it's kept between them, a secret they've shared since Sam was barely ten.

It had begun as compensation. Sam won't lie and say he was good with his defensive skills at his younger ages; actually, he'd been completely terrible. It hardly helped that every time he screwed up, whether it was a phrase in Latin or an attacking maneuver in barbarism, the rough voice of a pissed off John Winchester would come bellowing through the door. Sam's size was a problem. His _build_ was a problem. His mind _was a problem_.

But most of all, his _heart_ was a problem.

Not physically of course, but rather his mentality—his _perspective_.

Sam was lucky enough to retain seven years of normality before being introduced to the true world—he's thankful for that. Yet...it also meant he had a lot of catching up to do.

His soul was innocent, one not having the mettle for murder. Dean's always reveled in the adrenaline of a fight, in killing things, but Sam remembers his first hunt—a pagan god—all too clearly... Stumbling across the dying form of a deer on the floor of the forest, mauled yet still breathing... He recalls begging his dad to help save it, pleading with Dean to get it to aid. Neither had responded, merely looking at him sympathetically.

Finally, John had spoken up and handed him a knife.

"_You can help it this way."_

Sam had been eleven.

He took the weapon, mesmerised at the sharp glint of the metal in the moonlight. Under the assessing gaze of his father and brother, he'd had little choice but to follow through. The trembling animal feebly lifted its head off the floor, looking at him with an indifferent sort of regard—wide, black eyes that reflected his own fearful expression. It appeared calm, accepting of its fate, but deep down Sam knew it was frightened beyond belief—just like him. It was amazing, he had thought, how one day you could be arguing yourself senseless about infinitesimal things and the next be bargaining, _pleading_ with death's reapers to leave you be.

Sam knows that it's pointless arguing with his father all the time, but he honest to God can't help himself. The way they've been raised, taught, trained...driven into the _frickin' ground _for Dad's crusade—it's infuriating to him. Who becomes a training general to their kids? Certainly not a father. At this point, it's becoming ever clearer it can only be one or the other...and Sam's beginning to believe the former's won out.

As if there was any other choice.

So, he opens the cabin door on his general's orders and turns away from Dean, leading the way outside. The sun's first rays are starting to poke out from behind the mountains, but the majority of the sky is still pre-dawn navy-black. It's hot and muggy nonetheless—Sam's already wiping sweat from his forehead.

The cabin is in a remote location, a forest stretching out on one side and a lake lounging on the other. This means they've got no neighbors. Sam actually prefers the seclusion, the only company the crickets and cicadas. Sometimes, he even wanders outside the walls of their temporary sanctuary at night, breathing in the fresh scent of nature. It calms him. Especially considering the damaging words hurled at him everyday at school (and a number of other places...like everywhere he went, including at home). It helped to soothe him when he needed time to himself.

This morning, Sam's footfalls are oddly hollow as follows the gravel path down to the treeline and, spotting his father, squares his shoulders, heading straight for him. Dean does much the same. Soldiers on parade. They come to a halt before the man, who tips his chin up and checks his watch, raising an eyebrow at them.

"Two minutes late," he says simply—observation rather than outright admonition.

Regardless of what's said, the two of them know what it means. They exchange glances and Sam's fingers curl themselves into a fist at his side.

"Two miles—get going."

And their father says it so camly, simply...like he's mentioning what lovely weather they've got for a run this morning. It's really hard, sometimes—most the time, actually—not to hate him.

As Sam grows stronger, catching up with Dean, their training is slowly becoming more intense and precise. Now, for every minute they're late to start, they get a mile of running. There was one day he remembers getting delayed at school for ten whole minutes, subsequently being forced to do a whole ten miles with his brother; granted, they were allowed five minute rest periods after each one and time to walk during each lap, but overall it was brutal. Two minutes and two miles isn't too bad, but on days when they end up five minutes late, walking normally after their run is so difficult they need to recuperate in bed for half a day.

Neither Sam nor Dean dare show up more than three minutes late, these days.

It goes easy enough this morning: when they finish their second mile, only fifteen minutes has passed and the sun's just broken the base of the mountains. They complete the remainder of their stretches and, by the time John has told them about the sparring, Sam feels more than ready. He wants his pie. To be honest, he's only beaten Dean outright twice before, but maybe today will be different. His brother's getting fat and lazy with cheeseburgers, while Sam only gets fitter. He's gonna beat him.

He takes the defensive stance that's been burned into his mind as Dean approaches, trying to read the ploy... Every indicator says Dean will go for a right-hook outsider to his face, but there's one small mistake in his brother's body language that gives him the opening he needs. Dean's left knee is angled differently than it would be if he were going to punch from his right, so he figures his brother's actually going to attempt a low uppercut with his left.

The mental analysis takes mere microseconds.

Dean makes his move. Sam's right forearm shoots up to counter the blow. Even as he is inwardly congratulating himself for having been right, even as his brother's face fills with surprise at his feint being read apparently so easily, Sam has got a hold of his left arm, is twisting it... A hovering moment of building energy and—he lands a pulled-back kick to Dean's gut.

Nothing they do in their sessions is meant to harm the other, often their offensive attacks are complete blanks, so Sam knows his brother's all right even as he lands hard on the ground, if a little winded. Years of practice has made them experts at taking one another's hits (sparring with their dad is a completely different story).

They continue at it for about an hour. The sky fills in from navy to orange to blue and, even with Sam's best efforts, his brother still comes out on top. So much for that pie.

He returns to the cabin a curious mix of annoyed and desponded, gathering up his school supplies sulkily whilst simultaneously making breakfast for the three of them. Dean won't stop gloating and it's getting on Sam's nerves—always a sore winner.

"Sammy, you gotta get some muscle! You try so damn hard, but you never beat me." The smile the elder boy sent his way nearly tips Sam over the edge. "Hell, way you're going, I don't think you're ever going to get that fuckin' pie. Mmmm."

At this moment, their father traipses in the room and collapses into the chair at the table next to Dean...just in time to hear Sam's snide, "Fuck off."

"Sam, watch your language," the man commands perfunctorily.

Dean shoots Sam a knowing smirk that's more than a little bit smug. As if the guy needed any more smugness. With any luck, his brother would overdose on smugness...or choke on pie.

Their dad's presence puts a stop to their bickering but isn't enough to foil Sam's plan of putting a couple of spoonfuls of cayenne pepper into Dean's eggs. If his brother doesn't like them spicy, he easily justifies, then he should cook them himself.

Setting their three plates down at the table, he begins digging into his own food, hiding his expression of gleeful anticipation behind a mouthful of eggs; when Dean starts sneezing and runs for a glass of water, he nearly inhales them and chokes _himself_. He knows full well there aren't any glasses on the drainer...or in the cupboard. Sam hid them all. A moment later, his brother obviously works this out because there's a clash and curse—Dean banging his head trying to stick his face under the faucet.

Egg comes out Sam's nose and his shoulders shake; a small smile pulls up the corners of even their father's lips; and from the sink, comes a continuous cacophony of gargling, spitting and cussing.

Every story has a moral. This one's is:

_Never piss off the chef._

* * *

The walk to school is uneventful, to say the least. The only thing remotely of interest is that when Sam is leisurely walking up the steps to his class, a large figure materializes to push him right back down them. Technically, he isn't even running late today. It's Friday, sparring earlier in the morning had gone fairly well (aside from Sam's devastating loss), and things have been going pretty smooth so far. Until now.

He was already halfway up the stairwell when he was shoved, so down he goes like a sack of salt, tumbling almost back end over head before physics decided his momentum isn't nearly enough for this acrobatic maneuver and his shoulders crash hard onto the concrete steps. Friction—his shirt catches on sharp corners as he slides to their bottom, thwacking the back of his head against the ridge of each lower step as he goes. Vision blurs. Head throbs, teeth ache.

He squints up in dazed surprise-confusion at his new tormentor.

When he fell, his limbs automatically spread to try and catch himself, so at least a lot of damage was prevented. Grazes, not broken bones. But now his head is a pumpkin atop his shoulders, a hulking lump of useless mass his neck is suddenly insufficient to contend with—inertial... And all of his books are scattered around him—some open, some crumpled, spines bent grotesquely back on themselves beneath him—and the fuzzy face of Trey Ralston (seriously, could you have a douchier sounding last name?) looks down at him. Nobody else is passing, it's just him and the other boy. Even through hard spikes of pain driving themselves into him, Sam understands he's in a very vulnerable position.

"Hey down there. _Winchester_, ain't it?" Trey inquires mockingly. Sam hauls himself to his feet, using an adjacent wall for support. "How does it feel to be the one knocked _into_, this time?"

Sam hesitates, curling forward slightly and affixing a brave expression to his face. "I dunno," he says, scratching at the nape of his neck. "Why're you asking me when you should know in the first place?"

A look of fury overtakes Trey's features, causing Sam to smile. Trey steps closer, forcing Sam into the brick wall; despite the other boy's aggression, he knows he isn't in any real danger. There are cameras in this hall and Trey knows it too.

"You think you're funny?" Trey hisses.

Sam shrugs. "I think I'm not a douchebag, unlike you. Comedy's got nothing to do with it."

Now enraged, the bully pulls back his fist, arm wound with tension. A burst of adrenaline floods Sam. He effortlessly prevents it hitting his face—Dean's more dangerous just mucking about than this asshole at his best.

Sam raises his eyebrows and lowers his voice. "You sure you want to do that, Trey?" He directs his eyes to the camera watching them intently.

Trey doesn't seem to care about being seen, though, and quickly focuses back on Sam with a thirst for revenge shining in his eyes.

"I think I am," the bully spits.

Sam's got no time to react before the same fist he initially blocked comes flying back at his face, filling his whole vision. The recoil from the punch is enough to send him reeling. He falls lax, hoping he'll just collapse to the floor, but instead he finds himself held up by thick, calloused hands. They keep him pinned against the wall—zero room to move, zero to escape. Sam hadn't honestly thought Trey would follow-up on his big-me, macho posture and threatening demands, but obviously he was completely wrong; now, looking back at the security devices he thought were his savior, a jolt of disappointment races through him: they're facing the other way. There'd be no footage for evidence.

Sam, willingly accepting the beatdown he's about to receive, is surprised nonetheless to hear a feminine voice suddenly shriek, "Trey!"

This time he is dropped and he falls down in a heap, his head throbbing in time with his pulse. A bout of dizziness overtakes him for a few seconds, before he shakes his head and glances up with itching curiosity at who has interrupted him and Trey and, consequently, saved him. In all honesty, Sam could save himself. He _could_. With the amount of training that he receives everyday from his family, he thinks he could take on many grown adults who don't retain minimum knowledge of self-defense or combating. He's been taught since such a young age continuously for many years that he knows his stuff. He knows how to protect himself, and he knows how to shut down bullies like this. But nobody knows about that, except for the few friends he has at this school.

To them though, even then it's just a lie he tells them about sparring for a martial arts class with his brother, which he guesses isn't too far from the truth. He still does it with Dean, and maybe sometimes John, but the bruises and cuts he receives are simple enough to cover for and the excuse of a wronged punch or mis-kick is typically enough to stop them from breathing down his neck. So...why give the entirety of a highschool ammo to repeatedly pummel him with for being such a freak?

In the end, he has discovered that sometimes staying quiet and keeping to yourself is the best way to handle things. To everybody else, he's just a normal skinny and lanky seventeen year-old who's the easiest of targets to pick on.

He turns his attention back on the incident that is occuring before his eyes, and he sees the woman in question storm up the steps. The fury is clearly evident in her posture, anger overtaking all of her senses. Her blonde hair whips back behind her in a frenzy, the curls entangling them in each other, and her eyes are a piercing blue-white encased in a torrent of ice.

Trey takes a small step backwards and squints as if he couldn't believe who he is seeing. "Casey?" he asks disbelievingly, and murmurs something to himself that Sam can't make out. The girl clearly hears it though and her forehead creases, her eyebrows narrowing in indignation.

"You wanna repeat that a little louder?" she questions him forcefully. Trey actually looks intimidated, and shakes his head. "Come on, I'm sure he would like to hear it too." She motions to Sam, and Sam feels slightly out of place, as though he shouldn't be a part of this conversation. It had the ideation of something that had happened prior to this school year, and he honestly didn't believe he had the reservation to have a front-row seat to some drama that had occurred long before he arrived.

"Fuck off, Casey," Trey says, regaining some of his confidence almost as if Sam were a fueler. The thought of the young hunter laying dazed on the ground must have restored some of his dominance over the rest of the teens there, and he clenches his jaw, looking up with a refounded strength.

"Just as bitchy as I remember," Casey observes, although Sam can't tell if there's a hint of sarcasm in there or not. "I think that's why I fell for you in the first place, actually." She bites her lip. "Back then I thought you were the bad-boy, y'know? Which, obviously, you are. Just not in the way that you believe, or I initially believed."

To Sam, it looked like the older senior had shrunk back a little at the harsh words. Something had definitely happened between the two of them, and he didn't really want to know what, but it was affecting everything at play here. Seeing the boy who was preemptively taunting him being so submissive was odd. "I didn't mean to push you away," he says quietly.

"Well," Casey says, "you did."

Trey runs a hand through his hair, clearly distraught. He straightens up though, and solidly responds, "Fine. I'll leave you to your new boyfriend." He glares at Sam. "Since you've obviously been eyeing him for weeks without his knowledge, you might as well make your move now. And you know what? How slutty is that? Going from one boy to the next—who knows? It might come back to bite you in the ass."

Trey adjusts his backpack and shoots both of the other teens one last dirty look before making his way up the remainder of the stairs and heading off to class. The bell clearly has already rang a long time ago, so all three of them are late no matter what, but the way the older boy hurried off made Sam recheck his watch.

Casey is the first to speak between the two of them, and she runs a hand through her hair before offering it to Sam. He hesitates for a moment and, annoyed, she says, "Take it or leave it. Or hang out on the floor all day, whatever." Sam blinks, confused. The girl laughs, and Sam snaps out of his confusion, grasping her limb as she pulls him up.

He stands awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what to say. For one, he hasn't even realized that this girl had existed until today, and now, he had an aching face, bruised eye, battered body, and had just been told that she had been interested in him for a while. Internally, he couldn't hold back a maniacal chuckle at his _perfect_ luck. Because, you know, he actually had someone intrigued in him _for once,_ but because he was a Winchester, they would be ditching this place very soon. After the gig was done, at least.

This leaves three people hurt. Sam, his soul, and Casey herself.

While Sam is still staring stupidly at her, she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and bends down to pick up his books that are all across the ground. A few of them have fallen down the steps, including his English and trigonometry textbooks, and she slowly walks down them. It takes Sam another ten uncomfortable seconds until he finally gathers the will to help her, and together they silently work on their chore. Not long after, the notes are all back in his notebook—no matter how wrinkled they are, now—and he's slightly more stable. She casts an empathetic look toward him, and Sam rolls his shoulders.

To any bystander, it would have looked hilariously funny at how eccentric the scene was. Two teenagers, embarrassingly standing and not talking to each other in the hallway, avoiding the appearingly delicate subject at hand. Sam knows he needs to get to class, knows he'll have to deal with the wrath of the teacher; hopefully, though, with some puppy dog eyes and some sincere pleading, he can get out of detention. But for some reason he can't move from where he is rooted to the linoleum floor, and for the first time he really takes in the Casey's slim form.

"Well, this is strange," she says, and rubs a hand across the back of her neck.

"Yeah…" he trails off, not knowing what to say following that. Silence. Finally, under the weight of the tension, he manages to get out a steady, "Thanks, you know. For doing what you did."

She nods, and the muscles in her jawline clench. "Don't thank me. Trey's a dick. Him and those two friends of his… God." She pauses. "Makes me wonder how I was stupid enough to date him last year."

Sam smiles, and gazes down at his feet. "Everybody makes mistakes. It just depends on what you do after those mistakes, not when they happen. But either way, seriously. Thanks."

"Anytime." Her icy eyes peer into his own. She fiddles with her hands, nervous. "Hey, um, there's a Halloween party going on Sunday, by the way, in the woods outside of the town square. It's kind of, well, a town tradition per se. Most people go, and it's kind of the night where everybody just tones down for a bit and drinks some booze. Typically this place is barren and boring, but every once in awhile, people agree that there needs to be something to bring forth a little life. I was wondering, maybe, if you'd like to go with me?"

Sam is surprised, yet jovial at the same time. He thinks back to his family and the hunt though, and has to stop to contemplate for a moment. This must've looked like Sam was rejecting her to Casey, because then she's scrambling, "I mean, if you don't want to, I get it, it's fine. I know what Trey said, and if I'm not the kind of person you want to hang out with—"

He interupts her sharply. "Hey, Casey, that's not it," he says. She stops her ranting, and waits for him to go on. "My family is just amazingly strict," he continues, "and I doubt they'll allow me to go."

Her face falls, and Sam feels a pang of guilt in his gut. "It's fine, I—"

"No. I'll talk to them, and try to persuade them, and if I get anywhere then I'll message you to come pick me up. But I can't guarantee anything. What's your phone number?"

She looks happier at that, and reads it off to him to put in his contacts. He quickly does so, and together they start up the stairwell. At the top, he realizes that she needs to go left, and Sam needs to go right. He stops, and extends a hand in gratefulness. She looks like she's going to take it, before the bell suddenly rings and a rush of students come out of the line of doors. Sam's stunned, and it takes a minute to realize that he had just skipped all of his 40 minute mathematics class. Since it was a Friday, he has all of his classes and totally just missed his first one. Sighing in defeat, he returns to his locker and puts his supplies for his first period away, exchanging them for his French notes.

It's going to be a long day.

* * *

By the time Sam has walked all the way home, it's late afternoon and he's exhausted. Good news was: he didn't have to go to detention, but rather simply come thirty minutes before school on Wednesday to aid the teacher with a few tasks he needed to get done in his classroom. Which Sam was deeply thankful for, and had praised the teacher for his mercy. He had honestly expected something far worse, so a half hour out of his day wasn't that bad at all.

Dean must've been working overtime down at the garage again, because he once more wasn't there, and Sam had to make his way through the inferno of heat that was the outdoors. He didn't mind, though, and went without a single complaint on the entire trek home, even in his mind.

He opens the screen door quickly, and skips inside with a newfound exuberance at the day's earlier events. It hits the frame loudly, and Sam is halted in his tracks when his father's call at him not to break the door comes from the main room. He didn't think his dad would be home right now, but clearly he was wrong. At least most of the damage from his tumble down the stairwell is either hidden in his hair or his mind, and the knock to the face hadn't resulted in anything aside from minimal bruising around his lower lid. It's barely even noticeable, but of course, John was a Marine and knew an injury—however small—at first sight.

"What happened?" he questions as he walks into the kitchen where Sam was setting down his stuff on the table.

Sam shrugs and meekly says, "Just a knock to the face. Bumped into some kid and he got pissed." Technically, it's the truth; he's just avoiding some significant and specific parts. Like falling down some stairs.

"You didn't fight back, did you? Draw any attention?"

Sam swallows back his heating anger, and replies, "No, sir."

"Good."

It's approval, and that just pisses Sam off even more. The fact that his father wants him as defenseless as possible in school was far from wholesome, and it bugs the hell out of him. His dad applauds him for taking a beating. Sam sighs inaudibly. _Harsh world_, he tells himself and forgets about it.

Instead, he picks his book bag back up and makes his way to his and Dean's room. He doesn't come out until dinner is ready, and goes to sleep extremely early. His brother returns a lot later than usual when Sam is already out, but even though Sam can tell the elder hunter tries with his utmost vigilance to avoid waking him, he was already wide awake from the moment he heard the screen door. After he assures himself that Dean was safe and home, he lets himself relax, and falls back into the rest he'd maintained beforehand.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter three, ladies and gentlemen! Thank you so, so much to everybody who has marked me and my story as following. And, special thank you to the guests and SaV21 who has reviewed!_

_Also, I do believe I forgot to mention this. Sam is 17. Dean is 21._

_As always, thank you to both Greyline and Jetania for their wonderful dedication and beta-work._

_Hope you guys enjoy. Please leave some words behind if you have the time. _

Sam gradually awakens to the sounds of the birds singing their alluring melody, as though nothing was wrong with the world as it is, which is something Sam finds laughable. The rays of the sun shine through the shutters of the blinds, casting a golden glow amongst his and Dean's room. It's actually cold, and Sam denies the urge to tug the covers back up over his chest to supply warmth. Which was confusing because not long ago it was nearly in the triple-digit temperatures. He guesses that's just how North Carolina weather acts.

Wind rustles through the room and blows the stray papers on the desk off in a flurry, the sounds of crinkling paper accompanying the soft white noise of nature. All in all, it's peaceful, and that is exactly how Sam likes it. While the thoughts in his mind are swirling around in a raging storm that, while intense, is simply tiring, he knows he can always count on something else in the world to bring him back up.

This is going to be one of his good days, he hopes. Then again, when are his days ever _good_?

He blinks against the harsh lighting, looking to the window he now realizes is open. That's why everything is so clear—Sam always feels better in his mind when he wakes to a blissful atmosphere. He pulls himself off of the mattress and slowly stumbles over to his dresser where he keeps his temporary clothes in his temporary home. Dean isn't in the room, his covers untidy and used, so Sam presumes he's actually gotten a decent amount of sleep. Dean is typically the one who oversleeps, but the younger sibling is getting there, learning to adapt to his teenage body's desire for long periods of rest.

Swiftly, he throws on a simple shirt and shuffles to the bathroom to start an attempt at making himself somewhat presentable. Over time, he has slowly begun to realize that it was becoming a fruitless effort trying to control his messy hair, his bangs doing whatever-the-fuck they wanted in the mornings. Eventually, he sighs and gives up, instead deciding to put his time toward something useful instead of leashing a beast that didn't want to be harnessed.

He makes his way to the kitchen, taking in the visual of John lazily dozing on the couch and Dean reading a book at the table. His brows raise partially in wonder, and he quietly prances over to where his brother is invested in whatever he is looking over. Nobody has noticed him yet, and he quickly snatches the novel out of his brother's unsuspecting hands. Dean whirls around as Sam laughs tauntingly, studying the title.

"Really, Dean? _The Energy Bus?" _Still chuckling, he drawls the words, "_Ten Rules to Fuel Your Life, Work, and Team with Positive Energy."_

Dean narrows his eyes and stands up from his chair, galled and irate. "I'm supposed to be reading it for a...uh...she's a psychology student, okay?" As he struggles to come up with an excuse, Sam can't help but double over in a ghastly fit of chortles, unable to breathe. "Hey! Dumbass! Stop laughing!" Dean protests, sounding a lot younger than he is with his whining.

"I'm sorry," Sam apologizes, still cackling, "but that's just amazing."

His brother obviously doesn't find it as hilarious, though, because Sam quickly finds himself in a hefty headlock. He tries to twist out of it, but thankfully, he doesn't have to pry for long because their newly awakened father breaks it up.

John looks tired, the bags under his eyes dark and telling of his age. His eyes are slightly clouded over with a fatigued mist, and the wrinkles on his forehead are exaggerated in the lighting. Although, even with his exhausted posture and demeanor, he looks a bit amused at the brothers' bickering.

Slowly, they all settle down and begin eating the remainder of the food that was left in the pantry. Considering things, it's a decently uncommunicative meal, and nobody really talks to each other. Sam knows why, of course—it's nearing November, and tensions are really high at this time of year. He avoids the subject, though, instead opting to be a part of the quiet, picking at his breakfast. He isn't in the mood to be provocative this morning.

Sam twirls a half-eaten piece of potato around in the ketchup on his plate and glances around the ridges of the table. Each dent in the wood reminds him of the fact that an actual, real family had lived here once before him, and he hypothesizes a scenario for each groove. To be frank, it's one of his favorite things to do when he's the most bored and has nothing else to do. For one of them, a deep arc about three inches wide, perhaps a child could have banged something metal. Another one looks like the blade of the knife had sliced through, and maybe they'd screwed up whilst cutting fruit or something of the like.

He does this up until his father clears his throat as though ready to make an announcement. John glances at his youngest, before saying, "Sam."

The boy looks up in response questioningly. "Yes, sir?"

"That was a solid job you did with the information on the hunt, I meant to tell you. Where you talked to that girl Kelly on the phone," he says. "The notes you did were great, too, aside from the marks. But I could still read it, so it's fine." At this, Dean snorts, causing Sam to glower at him.

"It actually helped narrow down what I think it could be, and I do believe I now know. I'm a bit upset I didn't realize it sooner, in fact."

Sam's eyes widen, and he impatiently waits for his dad to continue. Dean has abandoned eating too, due to the fact they were now talking about the hunt and not carelessly snarking at each other. It's genuinely admirable how Dean can so easily switch from being a complete sarcastic king to a follower in Dad's army, and Sam sometimes wishes he could do the same simply to please their dad. Yet, it seems as though he could only grasp onto the initial one of the two. Barely.

Dean asks the question for the both of them. "Well, what is it?"

John pauses, appearingly guarded for a moment. "A daemon."

Sam stares at him with confusion. Then, he stands up abruptly, pushing his chair back and causing it to skid along the hardwood floor back a few meters. Oh, so _that's_ why John fucking Winchester was hesitant to tell him—and rightly so. All of his previous emotions have suddenly fizzled out as though they were the sparks of a firework exploding, and all together, the only one left is pure resentment.

He braces himself on the table, a condemning and bitter expression occupying his face. His mind is suddenly alive, and a thousand thoughts rush over him in a brief instant. He can only grab onto a few, however, because they all fly by so fast that it's hard to catch and actually read them.

While Sam is silently fuming, Dean takes the opportunity to ask, "A demon? Like an actual demon? We haven't hunted one of those since Temecula."

Sam shakes his head. "No," he grits out through clenched teeth. "A d_ae_mon. With an _a. _They're a part of classical Greek mythology, pertaining more to Socrates than really Plato and Proclus, despite some aspects being reciprocated from that. Daemons are benevolent and _benign _nature spirits, that are beings of the same derivative as deities and mortals, Dad. According to Pythagoreans, they're even meant to guide individuals to salvation! So why are we hunting it?"

Sam's surprised at how his father manages to look surprised at his ferocity, which simply pisses Sam off. Ha, like he was actually going to _not_ refute this pure, upcoming slaughter? What makes him even more angry, though, is the fact that Dean seems to even be debating this scenario. Honestly, Sam feels like he could easily throw a few punches, and not necessarily at pillows, either. This entire time that they've been in Mooresville—_a month_—they've been after something that wasn't even going to harm anybody, and was merely surviving? It infuriates him beyond belief.

"Sam." Dean sighs. Sam knows that he promised to not start any arguments during this week and perhaps the next, but this was unavoidable. Did they seriously expect him to just sit back and watch while innocent blood was spilled onto their weapons and clothes? _Screw promises._

"_Dean_," Sam responds sharply, the underlying message clearly stating that he should stay out of this argument. "Dad, why are we hunting this? And I swear, if you say that it's supernatural and that it _has_ to die…"

"Son—"

"Don't start with that 'son' crap, trying to sweet-talk me into a bloodbath. It's not going to happen."

"I don't know what to tell you, then, except that you've got an extra five miles added on top of your session today. I expect it done in under 25 minutes." John rolls his shoulders nonchalantly. "Say another word and I'll make it seven in 30." Sam could've sworn he'd seen the faintest of smirks on the man's lips, like he'd already won the battle.

But this was Dean's time to speak up now. "_Twenty-five?_" he asks disbelievingly.

"Not you. Sam." He directs his head to the younger brother to further prove his point.

"I know!" Dean exclaims. "But professional runners can barely make five miles in thirty, yet you want him to do it in _twenty-five?_ No, not happening. I may not agree with him, or his attitude, but that's physically impossible."

Ouch. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dean.

Sam isn't sure what he had been expecting—_maybe_ a few words of support from his brother—but whatever this was, it definitely was not _that_. Sam and Dean aren't really the type to hold hands and walk each other through everything anymore, but they did still stand up for their counterpart when it was duly required. Yet although Dean's protecting him from the grueling run that he was now dealt, he isn't protecting him from the most vital thing. Sam doesn't care about the running.

He can take physical pain. That's a given, and has been for the longest of periods. Pain is just something that comes with the gig, and there's no changing that, unfortunately. Hell, they get tossed around by ghosts and spirits as well as other monsters on almost every hunt. Concussions are a bi-monthly occurrence lately, broken ribs are a recurrent phenomenon, and blood is almost everyday. So, a run that's rigged against him so that he can't complete it? Sure. It'll hurt, but fine.

However, the one thing that strikes him the most is when his opinion is ignored, or he's deemed as some lowly, unknowledgeable kid who knows practically nothing about what was happening. He's saved his family so many times, and they know it. They just choose not to acknowledge it.

He thinks back to a time when he was 12 years old and on a hunt dealing with a werewolf. One of the only ones that he has ever done so far in his life, and his first one for the time back then. Since the hound had seemed brutally fierce and they had lost its trail numerous times, they had called in a good hunting pair that they had heard about in the area.

"_I'm telling you, it isn't the wife."_

_He shrugged at the multiple annoyed side glances that he received at that statement, and studied each person in the room. They didn't believe him—nothing new. The two hunters they were bunking with seemed truly cross at being told off by a kid three times younger than them, and they rounded on Sam. A young Dean stood up protectively._

"_The husband was murdered, sure. But the wife is completely scared out of her mind. She's not the one that killed him, or any of her friends," Sam continued. "Did you know she has a kid? A 14 year-old, who goes to a local high school."_

"_So what are you saying, boy?" one of the older hunters questioned impatiently. Jack was his name, if he remembered correctly. "That we have a baby werewolf running around, slitting people's jugulars with their claws and ripping out their hearts? Doubtful."_

"_The claw marks are about the same size as a young kid's hands!"_

"_They could easily be a female's too, though! Kid, you have seriously got to learn some discipline." Jack peered at John. "You're a lot younger than us, and haven't been in the hunt for more than a few years. You need to understand what happens when you're disrespectful, since your daddy obviously hasn't done a thing about it."_

_Dean looked livid, holding his arms out. "No. You don't lay a _hand _on him, you understand me?"_

_John shoved his way in as well and whispered dangerously, "You touch my son, and you'll be wishing you stayed far, far away from here while we were in town. You'll wish you hadn't left your families unprotected, too, because you even so much as put a finger on my boy, you guys won't be the only ones getting punished."_

_This was enough to push everybody into a stunned silence. Jack and his partner Asel shifted on their feet, clearly threatened enough to the point where they had learned their lesson. The Winchesters were a pack of three, no matter age. One gets injured or knocked down, the other two will hunt you down until you're in the corner pissing your pants. And even after you're dead, that won't be the end of it. Hurt one, hurt all of them._

"_As for you, Sam," John said, turning, "you keep your mouth shut from now on. You can still come with on the hunt, if and _only _if you follow suit the way that we do it."_

_Sam was left with absolutely zero options left, so he bit his lip and nodded his head, agreeing to the terms. He was still confident in his hypothesis, but nobody else was convinced, so he would just have to try and do his best to cover for everybody. Which, considering he had four men that were each as steadfast as the next—and all the more stubborn than a mule—along with the fact that he was as short as a standing lamp, it would be a tough task._

_Later that night, they had moved onto the wife's property stealthily, concealing sheathed weapons of the silver variety. Jack and Asel had chosen to remain in the front, picking the front door. While they did this, the three Winchesters had made their way to the back. As they cracked open the door and filed carefully in, Sam followed last. But, thinking quickly, he then exited again into the moonlit night and backtracked to a window after making sure his family wasn't paying attention to his movements._

_Feeling along the edges of the sill, he had discovered the point where the lock was, and made quick work of it. His feet hit the inside of the bathroom softly, like a feather falling to the ground. Sam's miniature size did help a lot with his tracking and stalking work, which was one of the only benefits out of it. _

_Just then, a heart-stopping scream reverberated throughout the house. Fearing for who it was—although it definitely didn't sound like Dean—he rushed in, and the scene that greeted him was not what he had been expecting. And the smell…_

_The wife's body lay mauled and open on the center carpet of the living room, blood covering everything in the general vicinity of the corpse. Her chest was concaved, her stomach torn, and Sam looked away before he could see more of what he thought were her intestines. On the other side of the room, a small stout boy lay over something limp, hands prodding and face close to its surface. It didn't take long to recognize the body of Jack, and not far away, Asel rested against a bookshelf. From where he was, Sam could still recognize the rise and fall of his chest, so at least he was still alive. Jack though...the werewolf was still probably eating his heart._

_John sat on the other side of the room, a nasty cut across his cheek, leaking blood in a steady stream. He seemed awake though, and Sam calmed himself down at the panic that had seized him. Next to him was Dean, who was also conscious—if a little dazed—but on the floor and crawling over to his father. Something must have been wrong with his leg, as if he was still capable of walking and moving, then the creature would already be dead._

_It's a wonder that all of them had been caught by surprise and bested, but honestly, they hadn't been prepared. They must have stepped into the house and saw the wife on the floor realizing their mistake, and before they knew it, the canine had been on top of them. A werewolf was strong when they were angry, and that's where things had went wrong._

_While the monster was busy...feasting…Sam took the opportunity to line up a shot with his pistol. Jack and Asel hadn't wanted him to wield one due to his inexperience, but the family of three knew better. Sam was glad he was still able to. Calculating the human body, he judged where the heart should be, and pulled the trigger. But, his scent must have finally caught the wolf's attention, as at that moment it turned around in a fury. The bullet hit its shoulder, enraging the creature, but it didn't manage to get far. Sam emptied his clip effortlessly, and despite it being a somewhat messy spray, at least one of the shots hit its mark._

_It collapsed to the ground, and what bothers Sam to this day is the fact he never even flinched. At twelve years old, he had just killed a kid—someone like him—without hesitation. But after that day, other hunters and alike knew not to mess with _any _of the Winchesters. Jack's death was a fair enough example._

Since then, Sam's treated more as an equal and less as a toddler, but sometimes he still just can't seem to get through to his adamant family. Once they have their minds made up on something, then there isn't anything you could do. They were similar to a boulder that has fallen into a deep gully, in that they couldn't be shifted.

Bringing himself back to present, Sam focuses his mind back on what John and Dean are talking about. He hasn't missed much, he realizes, but the conversation has definitely settled a bit. Dean seems to have that effect on their dad. Whenever the man gets upset in the way he is now, Dean seems to be the only one able to talk him out of going to a bar and drinking himself silly. Probably because the older child was the more compliant one. And the one he liked better.

"Fine," John relents, but he still didn't seem happy about it. "You've got thirty-five minutes, and I want it completed by the end of the day. Remember where you go—I want it marked. Now, is there anything else you want to say to me?"

"Yes, _sir_," Sam says sarcastically.

"Excuse me?" John asks lethally, gaze daring him to say something more. Dean also looks at him, his expression pleading.

Huffing, Sam finally lets it go at his brother's request. He can't really deny Dean anything anymore. "I'll do the run, I mean, sir."

"Attaboy."

As soon as the rest of his food is gone, Sam immediately wants to go. He knows that doing something as tough as the ordered run right after eating is going to be amazingly difficult and the exertion could make him sick, but for now he needs to get out. Get out of the house, get out of this life—he needs to get out of a lot of things to be fair, yet for now, all he needs is to get out of the same room as his family.

Excusing himself from the table, he tramples out of the kitchen and makes his way to the door. The screen swishes open and closed per usual, banging once again on its closure. He cringes, expecting a voice to drift through and chastise him for trying to break the entrance, but is somewhat satisfied when it remains quiet. Maybe he has finally reached his limit for being yelled at today, he thinks grimly.

The cool air greets him, and he lets the cold embrace his body. Yet another thing to worry about: his lungs and throat burning from the air. Yeah, this is going to be a doozy. He figures he'll run through a trail that leads its way straight inside the woods, and later maybe along the highway. Unfortunately, he doesn't really have the means and materials to exactly measure his distance, so the road is his best bet. The mile markers will have to suffice.

Deeply exhaling, he accepts his fate, starts his watch, and begins the herculean task.

Around four-fifths of the way done he starts to really feel it. At this point, he's achingly regretting starting out with zero preparation. The least he could've done was stretched or rolled down his muscles with the foam roller they had gotten and kept from a therapist in Oregon. Now, every muscle in his lower limbs are colossally begging for mercy, his lungs are abused and exhausted, and he really just wants to _stop. _

Knowing doing so will only make things a lot worse though, he encourages himself further, and looks down at how much time he has remaining. _28:42._ He had easily strode the beginning two miles in under ten minutes, so he has a comfortable amount of room to get back within the limit. In fact, he can probably walk now, and he slows himself down to a very sluggish jog.

He's back in the woods now, and relishing in the fact salvation was a mere few minutes away, Sam allows himself to breathe. Greeting his father isn't going to be fun, but if he thinks that sending his son out on a treacherous run like this is going to make him shut his trap, then he's incorrect. For years Sam has sat back as a spectator and refused to step in, but this was an innocent creature—killing it was against his morale. He wouldn't.

Too focused on this, Sam doesn't entirely realize he's back at the cabin until he practically stumbles onto the steps. Taking in gasps of breath, he sits down and pauses his time with two minutes to spare. Utilizing a moment to swallow his oncoming bile, he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the door. But as difficult as that is, he feels a little bit satisfied at completing the marathon in its entirety.

It takes about 5 minutes, but he has his heart-rate under control and mind settled shortly. Regathering himself, he stands up against the onslaught of muscle pain and works his way into the building. John still sits at the table, but Dean's cleaning up all of the food and dishes at the sink. Sam blinks, wipes the sweat from his forehead, and trudges on.

His father spares a single glance at him, checking his watch, and makes a quiet _hmph_ in the back of his throat. To anyone else it would've looked like disregardance, but to Sam it's a variation of approval, and for that he didn't mind. Dean looks up at his entrance, a little more concerned.

"Sammy?" he asks. "You good?" His entire posture screams pride, but his actions display worry. Sam bobs his head in assurance.

"Yeah," he says to further convince his brother, biting his lip. "M'fine."

Dean quirks a half-grin. He walks over to Sam's side in an instant, slinging his left arm around his younger sibling's waist. Sam rolls his eyes dramatically as though receiving a little help is the end of the world, but allows Dean to mother-hen him. Together, they make their way to the room in tandem, one step at a time.

Half-way, Dean says softly, "Hey, how about no bullshitting me next time, eh? I know when you're hurting either way, so there's no point in lying."

Sam sighs. "Didn't wanna make a scene in front of Dad."

"Dad?" Dean sneers. "Dad's pretty impressed with you right now, kid. You're seventeen, and just ran over a 5k in less than thirty-five minutes. Most adults can't even do that, let alone normal runners. Hell, I can't do that. That's why you always finish before me in runs." They reach their door, and Sam leans against the wall while his brother opens it. Walking inside, he shoves Dean's arm off him and collapses onto the bed.

"Nope," Dean declines, yanking Sam back up by his shoulders. "Ice bath. Now. Trust me, you'll need it. And I'll make sure Dad doesn't give you anymore training today, not that you could even get out of this bed if you wanted to."

Squinting his eyes in confusion, Sam starts up to prove his brother wrong, but has to sit back down in pain the moment his foot touches the floor and takes pressure. He's really pushed himself to his limit.

Huffing, he waits for Dean's silent _I told you so_ to pass, and accepts the aid to the bathroom. "Thought so," Dean comments. "Now do your shit in there, and don't kill yourself by falling in the tub, okay? Get the water cold and I'll bring you the ice in a bit. Just gonna run down to the gas station." Sam nods, feeling kind of embarrassed, and starts his procedures.

His brother returns within the next ten minutes, and Sam endures the frigid waters with clenched teeth. He won't lie though, it feels amazing, and when he gets out of the bathroom his calves are a lot more relaxed than they'd been before. He climbs into his bed, deciding on a short nap after a yawn that nearly makes him fall to his knees. It isn't like he's going to be able to avoid it, anyway. Dean won't let him. He does need to recover, and sleep is the best remedy.

Speaking of, Dean leans against the dresser in front of him, brows pinched and forehead wrinkled. He's obviously thinking about something, and finally, annoyed, Sam pries.

"Y'know, this doesn't mean I'm not still angry at you. Your promise held long, didn't it?"

Sam winces, looking a different way. He hates being shunned by his brother. "I tried, Dean. I tried to not say it—" actually he didn't try at all, "—but that's ridiculous. I can't believe you'd actually expect me to _not _say something about that."

Dean waves his hands around in exasperation. "But that's the issue! You _always_ have to say something about everything, and it's goddamn irritating! Because guess who has to deal with a pissy father after you bite his head off every day?" He's sharply whispering, but that just makes the entire situation even worse, because even Sam knows Dean is restraining himself to not yell and get him in trouble..._again._ A blind man can see that.

Sam nods. "You're right."

"I know I'm damn right." The tone is a smidge more gentle, but the venom's still there in its entirety. "The one thing I ask you to do, and you can't even do _that_ without screwing it up. And hey, while we're at the condescending party, why don't you give me my pistol back, too? I told you not to touch my fucking stuff."

This causes Sam to sharply look up from where he had been staring at his hands. "Wait, what?"

The elder brother brother sarcastically explains, "Y'know, the .45. The one _Dad gave me."_

"I didn't take your pistol."

"Whatever. Go to sleep. We'll talk about this in the morning."

Sam knows they won't.

He watches silently as Dean picks up his coat, wraps it over his shoulders, and makes his way to the door. A part of him wants to fall to his brother's scheme, sit back and be the pretty little soldier and to do as he is told, but the other half of him wants to smack both his family members in the face and walk away. Sam won't do it—of course he won't—but he can fantasize it. He loves his small, twisted little family too much to do that. And that's exactly what it is, too: a group of kindred people who were forced into a world they didn't want to be in with one of the most significant roles. Some people just adapted better to the lifestyle.

"Dean?" Sam says his name before he can fully exit. The man stops in the frame, but doesn't turn around. The acknowledgement is enough though, and Sam continues softly, "If you think you're going to get me to drop this, you're wrong."

Dean tenses in the shoulders, Sam can _see _it, and he knows Dean is trying hard to not snap and smother him with a pillow. The response is tight and strained, as though it's painful to push out. "Goodnight, Sam."

Sam doesn't even get the chance to point out it isn't night before the door slams shut, and he collapses back onto the covers.

_Things start to pick up next chapter. :) Thanks for reading and reviewing!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Depression sucks. And that's all I have to say about my lack of posting. Updates every other day from now on until the story is finished (10 chapters.)_

_Thank you very much for the reviews and follows._

_Things pick up slightly in this chapter, then a lot in the next, then **a lot** in the sixth._

_Enjoy. Please leave a review if you can spare a quick moment._

_\--_

It had only been just past noon by the time Sam had finished his run, took the torturous ice bath, and gotten into bed. So, when he wakes up to the sun's shine and reign and glances at the clock, he's mildly confused and concerned that the clock tells him it's still noon. Either he slept for a second or he's been asleep for the past 24 hours. The second option would explain the dry throat and rumbling stomach. He sighs heavily—Sam hadn't necessarily wanted to sleep his entire Saturday away, because Sunday meant the day before going back to school, and a day closer to the forthcoming hunt. It is what it is though, and he throws the covers back and brings himself to a stand.

His muscles scream at him that it's a bad idea, but he steels himself to fully make it to the bathroom. Doing his business, he comes out when he's semi-presentable, and navigates his way down through the hallway to the kitchen. The scene is pretty similar to the one he came to yesterday, except the scent of hash browns and sausages is long dissolved and John now has a newspaper that he's reading. For a second it looks like a form of normalcy, but it isn't, and Sam has to sadly remind himself that it isn't. He hates doing that.

"Morning, Sam," John says gruffly, neither rude nor kind in his speech. The younger boy limps to the counter, opening the mini fridge and pulling out some orange juice and a white, folded fast-food bag. Inside is a croissant-bunned egg and cheese sandwich.

"Good morning, sir," he responds, because even if Sam hates the persona of his life and the hardships that accompany it, he knows his place and the respect he should give. That's one thing that most people don't understand about him—he may appear ungrateful like a moody teenager with hormones, but he's not stupid.

Dean's laying on the couch, sprawled out with a book. A lore book this time. He doesn't show any acknowledgement that Sam just walked in the room; Sam finds himself slightly dropping his shoulders at the silence, but recovers his composure and instead thinks, very childish. If Dean wants to play the silent game and act like a two-year-old then so be it.

John seemed to notice, though, as soon he's lowering his paper and glancing back and forth between his two sons. Sam simply sits back and takes a bite of his meal, savoring the grease that coats the meat for once.

"Okay," his father says, sitting up and clearing his throat. "What's going on." It isn't a question. Sam and Dean both look up respectively, Dean arching an eyebrow. Sam catches this, scoffing.

"No bantering, no bitching? The only thing making even the slightest bit of noise is the radio. Truth, boys," John orders. "With a hunt tomorrow, you're not supposed to be pissed at each other."

"Tomorrow?"

At the same time that Sam asks this, Dean exclaims, "Well, then tell him to fuck off and give my stuff back." It's immature and Dean clearly knows it. John rubs his temples tiredly.

"Yeah, Sam. Tomorrow. And I expect you to be with us." He turns to Dean. "And you? What stuff?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "He thinks I took his pistol."

"Who else would've taken it?" Dean counters.

"Oh, I don't know!" Sam mocks sarcastically. "Is it possible that the o' Great Dean Winchester misplaced something?"

Dean abruptly stands up from his position on the sofa, abandoning the book on the cushions. Sam flinches back ever so slightly, but keeps his posture strong and dominant. Damn being four years younger—he's as much of an equal as Dean is.

"You wanna say that again?" Dean hisses.

"Yeah, I do. Is it that far out of the realm of possibility that you actually forgot where you put something? I didn't. Take. Your pistol."

"Boys…"

"The hell you didn't!"

"You know what, Dean? Fuck you."

It's quiet. Dean glares at him, but doesn't respond. Sam knows that what he has said is definitely wrong, and he'll apologise for it later, but for now he needs the fighting to stop. The words had just exploded out of him, but today is definitely not the day for that, and he's just honestly not in the mood. He's aching, has a ton of schoolwork, and this entire (stupid) argument was thrown completely out of proportion. Everybody in this kitchen obviously knows that this pistol affair is not the main issue and just an anger-outlet for how it's the most deplored week of the entire year. Dean isn't upset about the firearm at all (or at least, not to this degree).

The Halloween party lingers in the back of his mind, itching at the corners of his thoughts. It'd give him a chance to get away from his family for a bit. He doesn't have a costume, sure, but he would be with Casey and that's cool. Part of him actually really wants to hang out with her, and as much as he wants to deny those feelings, he can't, and inwardly he slaps himself. He's getting way too attached to this town.

"Whatever," Dean says finally. He snatches his coat from the back of one of the plastic chairs and his keys from the table. Sam eyes him all the way. "I've got work in an hour. I'll see you guys later." With that he moves past John and opens the door, not looking back.

The silence is oppressive between Sam and his father once they are alone. Sam clears his throat awkwardly. John simply shakes his head and gets up from his seat, taking his long-deserted plate to the sink and setting it in with a loud clang.

"Tomorrow, Sam," he reminds. "I'm going to go get some stuff we need. Banishing ritual, bronze blade coated in silver. Takes a lot to get that, by the way. The ritual's in my journal. You should study it."

Sam stands in his same place. "Yes, sir."

No, sir, he would have preferred to say.

John casts him one more studious look before exiting in an identical fashion to the older brother and Sam releases a breath of relief at the solitude. He stays still for a few more seconds, processing all that has just happened—including what he said to Dean and the grief that accompanied it—before forcing his body to function. He pads softly to his bedroom and retrieves his backpack from underneath the bed, and searches the smaller pockets for the sticky note that held Casey's number.

The seven digits stare up at him, and at last Sam breaks and dials the number into his phone. It rings for a long while, the young hunter cringing with each one. Finally though, there's a click and the sound of some rummaging on the other side of the line, followed by a sweet voice. "Hello?"

"Hey, Casey, it's Sam." He grins. "What time's the party? Oh, and is it fine if I don't have a costume?"

Sam doesn't like Halloween for quite a few reasons.

The first reason, and thus the most clear one, being because his family lived Halloween every single day. Whether it's for a travel day or a studying day or an adrenaline-pumping hunt-filled day, it's a given at this point: take down the big scary monsters that threaten the land. So, what's the point of celebrating a holiday they commemorate consistently?

Secondly, it falls in the worst week of the year. When Sam was younger he wasn't necessarily keen on the idea of what had happened when he was six months old, and had often protested as to why he couldn't go out and trick or treat like all of the other kids that went to his school. He never understood the distant looks his father cast him, or the way he was ignored by his family annually on November 2nd. Now he knows. He knows he caused his mother's death. So most of the time on that day, he simply sits in the week's motel and mopes around while Dad goes to a bar and Dean heads out in the Impala.

Sam doesn't know what Dean does in the car, but apparently being away by himself helps him relieve stress and tension, and sometimes Sam can't help but wonder if he is ever the cause for Dean being so tightly wound. Sometimes though, his brother decides to stay with Sam, especially when Dad decides drinking at their residence is better than a public place, but otherwise they're all alone and all drowning in their own thoughts.

Then the day of November 3rd comes, and it's filled to the brim with headaches and pills and loneliness. November 4th they'll typically be on their way to a new hunt.

So, yeah, if you ask Sam why he doesn't like Halloween, he'll probably spout some lie of a tragedy that happened when he was younger or an embarrassing incident that occurred which he couldn't live down. Sam has never done anything on the holiday, and while he had planned to keep it that way, he can't resist going with Casey.

The clock has just ticked past seven in the evening when there's a knock at the door—oh, and wouldn't John give him hell if he knew that Sam had told someone else where they were hunkering down—and Sam has just finished prepping and showering an hour prior. He feels a bit underdressed and he hasn't even left the house yet; going to a party in a zippered jacket and jeans doesn't seem like the right attire, and rightly so. The feeling only intensifies when he opens the door and Casey greets him in a tight outfit with feathered wings and a halo headband over her braided hair, smile showcasing her cheekbones and layers of makeup.

"Hey," Sam says with a partial stutter, and kicks himself inwardly for his extreme and very obvious uncomfortableness.

Casey doesn't seem to mind though, laughing instead and extending a hand. "Hi," she responds, grin wide and inviting. "Shall we?"

Sam takes her hand and she immediately leads them outside, skipping across the gravel driveway and guiding them to the Jeep that occupies the space. He raises an eyebrow and looks at the girl beside him. Inside the vehicle are at least six other kids, crammed into tight seats with loud music blasting. They're all simultaneously dancing and singing with the little room they have, and when they turn to see Sam they all shift over to make more room, smiling and calling for him to join.

Casey steps a pace forward, turning around with a frown when Sam doesn't follow. "What's the matter, Chief? You scared?" She bends forward and winks. "Don't worry, there's tequila." Sam shakes his head and chuckles, walking toward the car. He hops into the back and squeezes in, Casey by his side.

A familiar voice jumps out at him suddenly, and he looks up in surprise. "Aye Sammy-boy!"

Sam whips his gaze around to face the person of interest, and gawks in disbelief. "Noah? I thought you were gone to Germany?" The elbow of someone next to him jams into his stomach amidst the festivity. The car has started and they pull out onto the road, gaining speed.

"Nah, I leave tomorrow!" he yells over the music. Someone else shoves into Sam's body, and Noah laughs. A girl sitting next to the other boy leans over and uses her hand to direct Noah's attention back to her, and they both lean in for a kiss. Sam watches in disbelief, unknowing that his friend has a girlfriend. This entire night is completely opposite of everything Sam has ever known and done, foreign and strange. A year ago, Sam would be sitting back on his bed, leaning over a book with nothing but a coffee to keep him company. Or, maybe, he'd actually be working on his homework that had a deadline fast approaching. But now? With his mind all twisted around and the anger that was being held back and slowly subduing, he needs to vent a bit.

It isn't that he's a person who doesn't like to have fun. He does—just, most of the time, other things are prioritized over going to pointless parties with friends with the sole intention to get drunk. Part of himself said that he was doing this just to spite Dean and his father; one last act of rebellion to resist the upcoming battle that he is already losing, to regain control of some form of independency. Maybe that part of him is right.

Casey notices his distant look and nudges him. "Hey, you all right?" she asks.

Sam shrugs, then swipes his bangs out of his face. "Yeah," he says softly. "I guess this just wasn't really what I was expecting. I've never experienced anything like this. Never really had the chance to," he adds.

"Family?" she wonders.

Sam pauses. "Yeah, I guess. In a way."

"Well," Casey says, and scoots her hips closer to him, "your family isn't here right now, all right? It's fine, we don't have to do anything crazy. I don't really want to, anyway. I just wanna have a little fun without worrying about drama, and…"

"Trey," he finishes for her.

"Yeah."

They don't talk much for the rest of the remaining ride there, despite Noah's fruitless efforts to get them to try a beer. Sam declines, and so does Casey, though it takes a few more seconds for her to decide. The music is deafening, and a miniature migraine is beginning to form in his neck as a kink he can't roll out. He once again questions why he's here.

Not too much longer later, the Jeep rolls to a stop on some gravel, and everybody piles out at once. Two girls stumble over Sam's thighs and Casey has to help guide each person out without getting injured. It's a miracle, really, that it's completed in a somewhat orderly fashion.

When he finally manages to get his feet underneath him, he straightens out and is immediately pulled away by Casey. She giggles, and Sam smiles. Taking a look around, he notices that this place is busy. In total, there are at least fifty kids here, a few adults lingering in the frontmost section of the area. The location is desolate and dark, the sun having set a long time ago and leaving the Earth to the light of the moon. It's a large circled clearing, combed through by heightened grass and tall oaks.

Halloween lights are strung up through the branches, emitting an uncanny glow over the residents beneath them. Picnic tables are set up throughout, different shades of candy wrappers strewn across them. It's pretty nice. Sam's curious, though, where the real party is.

"Through there is the lake," Casey says. Sam glances in the direction she signals him to. There's a secluded yet slightly visible trail that can only be seen if you're specifically looking for it, and she tells him, "That's where the fun is."

The group of kids that they had rode here with are already making their way toward there, and Casey follows. Sam trails after her, and together they make their way amongst the foliage.

About two minutes of talking and inept jokes later, they come across a small cove with a curved, sandy beach. Joined by it are gentle waves brushing onto the shore and a stereo in the middle of split tree—which Sam would guess was struck by lightning at some point. It's playing some song by Nirvana that he doesn't recognize, and there are many teens scattered around the clearing; some dancing, some drinking, some making out on the sand. There are at least three classroom's worth of kids there, and it's definitely not as serene as the previous scene they had arrived to when they had first got here.

Noah once more comes up to them both, three beer cans in hand. "All right," he says, "you're not turnin' me down this time." Sam reluctantly takes it, uncapping it and letting the froth spill down the sides. He isn't going to get drunk like most of the teens here, of course—it's too dangerous with the knowledge he has—but he can get himself a little buzzed. Plus, he has his knife in his belt, secure and hidden, and he knows he can't trust himself when he's intoxicated.

They stand around talking to other friends for about another half an hour, before everybody suddenly starts murmuring and breaking apart from their small groups. Another batch of kids has just broken through the treeline, and Sam feels nauseous at the sight. Amongst them are Trey and his buddies, along with a few other kids that Sam's heard about but never cared to get mixed up in.

The music starts back up again, louder than ever, and people begin dancing in sync. Trey drops his bags of, presumably, matured and strong alcohol in the sand, and scans the scene. His eyes lock onto Sam and the hand that has somehow found its way intertwined with Casey's, but Trey just turns away, laughing to himself.

"Well, shit," he hears Casey whisper next to him.

"I thought you said he wasn't going to be here?" Sam asks.

She throws her hands into the air. "I didn't think he would be! He's never been interested in this party for years!"

Sam looks back at the other boy, who's uncapping a glass bottle. This night's surely going to get interesting, especially with what had happened Friday in the stairwell. Trey's out for blood, and Sam knows it.

"Maybe we should leave," he suggests. "I don't want to stir up anything and ruin this for people. He knew I was going to be here, that's why he came."

Casey shakes her head. "I don't think he'll cause too much trouble. The school might not give a crap about what he does, but most of the authorities have an eye on him. It'd be stupid of him to."

"But do the authorities know about this party?"

Casey stares at him, then ducks away. She walks a few steps back, taking off her heels and kicking sand up as she goes. Sam stays where he is, silently observing her venting off frustration.

"I don't understand," she says finally. "He treats me like shit when we date, then when I finally want to break away from him, he has to come after me and the guy I actually like? I never should have gotten involved with him in the first place."

Sam blushes a little at that. "Some guys can be dicks," he agrees.

Casey groans. "You know what?" she asks, and Sam shakes his head. "I'm done letting him control me and my life. Done. If he wants to cause some trouble, then let him. We've got people here who are all on our side—Zach, Ellie, Noah. They all want to see him taken down as much as we do. If he does something, make sure he does it in front of a crowd."

Together, they return back to the group of kids. Trey casts Sam a few sideways glances, but doesn't make a move to talk to them. Casey and him stay around with Noah and his gang (Noah now drunk after the six beers he'd downed). Sam could've sworn he'd seen Trey's lip curl up into a faint snarl when they returned to the party. There's no way that the senior is just going to stand back and let things play out.

Sam thinks of Dean at work in the garage, and his father probably wondering where he went. He's old enough to warrant being able to go wherever he wanted without his dad's consent, but he still feels a little guilty. Sneaking out is one of the things he never would've imagined himself doing, especially to his brother. Though, Dean's pissed, and probably will be even more so when he gets back to find Sam gone. Gone to a party, nevertheless.

It's nearing nine, and Dean gets off in thirty minutes. Sam isn't going to make it back in time, but he doesn't expect to, nor does he want to. He wants to take advantage of this time out alone, and release some of the anxiety that has latched onto the inside of his mind. Things are crazy right now, and this stress-reliever was actually perfect. Until Trey revealed himself, at least.

Casey's downing her fourth shot of tequila heartily. Sam watches her, sipping at his own water. She has egged him on multiple times, but Sam's turned her down each one. One beer was enough, and no amount of peer pressure would take away his sense of logic.

Overall, the night is nice. Another hour later, and Sam finds himself sitting at the shoreline, Casey on his lap, her lips on his own. She isn't quite drunk—Sam wouldn't be kissing her if she was—but it had all happened so quick and he hadn't had the chance to turn her away. Not like he wanted to, but still.

It's soft and delicate, the sounds of the current festival dampened and distant. He focuses only on her. This is exactly what he needs. This entire time, he hasn't thought once of the hunt.

For a second, Sam breaks away for breath, and a voice suddenly interrupts his calm. The voice he knew would appear at sometime, but had remained absent for hours.

"Aw, Casey, look at that. What a slut!"

She jumps back harshly, moving away from Sam in an instant. A ripple of chuckles surround the comment, encasing it in a blanket, and Sam sees red. Getting up, he dusts himself off and looks up at Trey. He's shorter, but not by much.

"Trey, why can't you just fuck off?" he says sharply. Somebody in the group of people whistles. Sam can sense more people building up and he figures enough is enough. He'll try and delay physical combat if he can, but if it's inevitable—which, at this point it pretty much is—he needs at least half the kids here.

"I don't know," the quarterback responds. "Why can't you stop fucking my girl?"

Sam balls his fists. "Your girl?" he repeats, barely managing to keep himself from shoving the other boy. "She's not yours. If I remember correctly, she dumped your ass a long while ago."

A few kids in the crowd laugh. Trey takes a step forward, and Sam takes a step back at the same time to counter it. Some of the other teens are quietly chanting for a fight, while a few others are saying mantras of Trey to back off. Brendon steps up beside his buddy, but Trey is quick to push him back. "It's just me and him," he says.

Casey's behind him, pleading. "C'mon, Sam, just back away. He's not worth it."

Trey looks to her. "That's not what you thought when you and I were in the bathroom."

Sam growls. He doesn't mean to, but it comes out before he can repress it, and Trey smiles.

He snaps.

Sam takes two fast steps forward, grabs Trey by his shoulders, and easily puts him into an arm-hold with one hand pinned and Trey bent underneath him. Dangerously, he whispers into the senior's ear, "Go home, and fuck off. You think you own this place, but you don't. You think you own her, but you don't. You think you own me, but you don't. There's nothing for you here."

He releases the other boy, stepping back. Trey straightens, shaking out his arm. Sam scoffs. He faces back to Casey, taking note of many other of his friends standing dumbfounded. "Let's go," he says, and nudges her away. She holds his hand, and together they start back to the forestry pathway. They're done here.

Sam doesn't even get time to react before people are screaming and there's running behind him. Roughly pushing Casey away, he swipes back, getting his hands behind him and flipping his body to face the noise, barely catching his fingers on skin. The pain doesn't register, at first. He takes the arm that he's caught, snaps it back, and punches Trey in the face. The boy falls to the ground limp, and Sam realizes he's put way more force than he needs to into that swing. He can't bring himself to care.

Then it strikes. His abdomen's on fire, and he stumbles. Many people run up to him and he feels their hands on his body, keeping him on his feet. One of the people is Ellie, the girl that Noah was interested in in the Jeep, and another—Jacob, one of the people he knows from his sixth period. They loop their hands under his arms, and slowly lower Sam to his knees. He catches a few whispers of the words, "Knife," and, "Blade," and, "Trey," and it isn't difficult to deduce what has happened.

Understanding, he gingerly moves the bystander's hands off him, tugging his shirt over his head. He glances down to the source of the pain, carefully observing the horizontal cut across his skin. It isn't deep, but it isn't shallow either, and extends at least 6 inches across in length. At least he'd kept it from penetrating his lower back, as he'd live from this and not the other possibility. Trey was aiming to kill him. Or, at least deeply incapacitate him. Sam stares at him sprawled unconscious on the sand, until somebody steps in his way.

"Oh my God," Casey mutters, yanking her halo and wings off her back. A few other teens have done the same, props peppered across the scene. "Shit."

"It's fine," Sam assures them. He wrinkles his shirt and presses it into the wound. "It's not deep. I've got it. Just help me to the car."

Casey seems doubtful, but complies when Sam insists. The cops are going to be here soon, and he can't be here.

They have to take a longer path to avoid the other, younger-orientated halloween party in the main plaza of the park, but eventually they make it to the vehicle.

"You good, man?" Jacob asks him, concern in his eyes. Sam nods, and lifts himself into the passenger's seat. It's Jacob's Jeep, but he'd been fine with Casey borrowing it to take Sam back to the current Winchester hideout. They're going to stay there and explain to the authorities what had happened, and make up some cover story to explain why Sam ditched. Sam's grateful for having friends whom he can rely on.

Before he's able to close the door, Ellie halts him. "Hey," she says easily. "Did you see where Noah supposedly went? He was pretty out of it, and I'm worried. I can't find him."

Sam sighs. "No, I'm sorry."

"It's fine. You just get better, okay?"

The door shuts and the engine starts, Sam leaning back into his seat. They don't talk.

Sam hasn't noticed that he's drifted off until his phone is vibrating in his pocket, Casey is calling his name, and the car is stopped. He wills his eyes open and looks around, recognizing the familiar location of the trees outside his cabin.

"Sam," Casey says again. "You're home. Now answer your phone, assure whoever's calling you're okay, and go rest up."

He doesn't resist, pulling the device out of his pocket. He doesn't even check the caller's ID when he opens it, and is suddenly wide awake from the screaming in his ear. "Sam!" the voice says, and he has to bring the phone back from his ear slightly. "Where in the fuck are you? I've been calling you for the past half hour! I swear to God, if you've gone off and done something stupid—"

"Dean, I'm fine," Sam says tiredly. Dean is pissed. He's worried, too. Casey snaps her attention to him, recognizing his brother's name, and she scrunches her eyebrows. "I'm right outside, in fact."

There's a small amount of rustling on the other end of the line, and Sam looks to the front door expectantly. It opens, and out comes a seriously angered big brother. Casey unbuckles her seatbelt and gets out, coming around the hood of the car to help Sam. Dean stops for a brief second, surprised, before shaking his head and jogging over to Sam's door. Most of the bleeding has stopped, crusting over the injury, and Sam opens his door with effort.

Dean is suddenly there, over him, scanning his younger brother for issues. He finds one. "Awh, kid, what'd you do?"

The oldest helps Sam out, and he manages to keep stable. "Who're you?" Dean asks Casey, and Sam grins slightly.

"She's my girlfriend." He won't necessarily consider her that seriously, but it's managed to shut Dean up in a stunned silence, and Casey laughs softly.

"Oh." Dean's arm slides around his waist, very much like the previous day when Sam had returned from his run. "Okay. Thanks," he says to her, nodding.

"No problem." She eyes him critically. "Just don't bite his head off, okay? It wasn't his fault. He saved his own life, and probably mine. The person who did this was aiming for someplace much different than a small cut on his stomach."

With that, she turns away, and Dean leads him to the porch. The Jeep speeds off, and Sam asks his brother finally, "Dad?"

"Gone," is the tight reply, and Sam releases a breath of ease.

It takes some tugging and prodding, but eventually the blood is wiped clean after Sam is forced into the bathroom. Butterfly bandages close the main portions of the injury shut, and Sam's unduly appreciative of the fact that it doesn't need stitches. That would have gone over well, he thinks with no small amount of sarcasm.

Ultimately, when Sam's changed and settled at the kitchen table, Dean takes the seat across from him and stares. Just...stares. He knows Dean's waiting for him to speak, to explain why he's bloody and why he has a girlfriend and why he'd come back in a mysterious Jeep. But Sam is way too tired for that.

"I know what you're going to say, and—"

"No, you don't." Sam is muted by the grievous interruption. "You really don't know what I'm going to say, because I don't even know what I'm going to say." He shrugs. "Let's start with this: where were you?"

"A party in Whitepost."

"A party?" Dean says disbelievingly. "You? Wow. Of all the places, I did not guess that."

Sam can't hold back a short laugh. "Yeah, well I was a little overwhelmed by you and Dad tearing me apart."

"Yeah...I'm sorry." Sam squints, confused. "I found the pistol. It was in one of the drawers," he confesses. "Though I guess you already knew that. I put it there after Monday's training session and totally forgot. To be honest, I don't even think I was mad about that. I just was upset about…"

"Dad," Sam finishes. "I know. Speaking of, where is he?"

"Bar."

"Figures."

Dean stands up from his seat, going to the fridge and grabbing something from the shelves. Sam doesn't even bother to find out what it is—most likely, it's some greasy fast-food that Sam has no concerns about. He's proven wrong, though, when a nice, round apple pie drops in front of him, with two forks on the plastic lid. It's the one they had wagered.

"I can't eat this myself," the elder brother says, and Sam smiles. But, halfway through the dessert, Dean abruptly stops and wipes his mouth. Sam knows what's coming.

"So, who the fuck tried to stab you, and how do you suddenly have a girlfriend?"


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you for the follows and reviews. Love you guys. __Things pick up **a lot **from here_.

_Much thanks to my betas, Greyline and Jetainia. You ladies are awesome._

* * *

Sam starts with Friday. To be fair, it's the day that began all this, so it's only natural that's the beginning of the story. He tells of how he was pushed down the stairwell heartlessly by Trey, and how the black eye he was sprouting was the result of a fist connecting with his face. Dean's fingers twitch at that, perhaps angered by the fact he hadn't known about this, and Sam has to wait a moment before he continues.

When Dean had said nothing about the discoloration of his skin when he'd returned from the garage, Sam had figured that John had told his brother about it in advance to avoid any arguments. He knows now his assumptions were correct, and besides, he hasn't told his father about the tumble that caused the discoloration, so consequently, his father hasn't told Dean about his tumble. Sam isn't upset, but Dean is—upset about Trey or upset about Sam's lying, he isn't sure, though.

He brings up how Casey had saved his ass, and how she had invited him to the party in the first place. He explains that he originally hadn't planned on attending, but after the recent fight with his family, he was confused and hurt, and hadn't thought rationally about what he was doing. Dean let that slide, explaining that, after all, he was a teenager once, and understood that parties and attractive girls were the undoing of his hormones. Sam flushes at that, flinging a small piece of pie crust at his brother.

The Winchester boys have never really done heart-to-hearts—they had warrior's blood, and there was no time for that—but now that Sam has physically almost died to something natural, something has to be addressed. When he gets to the part of Trey running up behind him, that's when Dean gets confused. And, honestly, Sam's a little confused by his recount of the subject as well.

Trey had a life ahead of him. Yes, he's a douchebag with no manners and little morals, but he isn't a murderer. He's a school quarterback. Dean and Sam both agree that it makes no sense as they think it over. It's possible that Trey was too drunk to legitimately think about what he was doing, but even then? Using a knife to stab someone who he had a small quarrel with wasn't likely. Especially in front of many of the high school's kids.

Sam hasn't heard from Casey about anything that had happened after he'd left yet. He's sure the cops will want to talk to him, see if he wants to press charges, but Sam knows he won't. Even now, after almost being killed, he won't. Still though, Trey may be put under the bus for underage drinking if the toxicology report came back positive (which Sam was sure it would), but if something was going on here—and that was a huge-ass if—then Sam doesn't want to be the one to ruin a teenage boy's life for something supernatural.

"I don't know," Sam says. "Maybe he just hates me that much."

Dean laughs. "Oh, and what? Toss away his entire career just to get payback on you for smooching his chick? I seriously doubt it. You said it yourself, he barely knew you. No, something else is definitely going on here, and I am going to go check it out in the morning. Which reminds me. Dad wants you to stay home from school tomorrow, and possibly the whole next week. If we finish this within the next few days, then we're going straight away. No need for you to waste your time here anymore." Dean halts at his words. "Sorry," he says, and waves a hand. "That was insensitive. I know you like it here, especially with that new girl."

Sam releases a heavy breath. "No, actually."

"No?"

"I actually don't really like it here," he explains, surprising himself with his own words. "I'm getting too attached and all I'm going to do is break hearts. Her heart. I can't be what she wants, and I'll just end up hurting her in the end. I have a lot of friends here that I'll miss, sure. Definitely. This has been one of the best bumfuck towns I think we've stopped in." He chuckles. "But I'm used to the moving, I'm used to the abandoning, I'm used to the forgetting. I'd rather get it over with now, rather than later, and get even more comfy in this cabin."

Dean stares at him with an expression Sam can't decipher. He figures it's a little sadness, and a bit of guilt, too. "That was really beautiful, Samantha," his brother comments instead, mock sniffling. Sam smirks, looking down. "But seriously, dude. That's not healthy, and I'm sorry. It shouldn't be this way. You should be staying here, getting a solid education, dating that girl, me instructing you on what and what not to do, making fun of your ass for having a chick that cares about you."

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Dean stops him. "I'm not done yet. You think you have to live up to this family, don't you? That's why you get upset when Dad and you fight, runnin' off to do what you did tonight. You want to be the perfect son that Dad wants, but you know you can't be, because guess what, Sam? You're too good of a kid for that. This hunt is an example of that."

Sam merely shrugs, not denying or accepting what Dean's saying.

"I looked back over your notes. They were pretty damn good. And I see what you're saying, about this...this daemon. That it's not an issue. I did a little bit of research myself—and I know what you're going to say. Me? Research? Impossible. But I'm not an invalid, and despite popular opinion, I do have a mind for myself. I just want to say, I agree with you, and I'm here to back you up."

Sam snaps his head up. "Really?"

Dean nods. "Yeah. And now that we've got all of that out of the way, you better go clean up before we start growin' lady parts. Because I'm serious. That was so out of character for me, you have no idea."

"Of course I have an idea. I'm with you practically every moment of the day."

"You're such a bitch."

"I know. Jerk."

Dean flips him off, and Sam takes that as his cue to leave. He isn't sure when Dean had gone so soft-hearted, but it's good to know that he isn't alone in this anymore.

Perhaps things aren't as bad as he had originally thought.

* * *

Sam awakens to the vibration of his cellphone that he had neglected to put aside, and instead had it misplaced along with the rest of his haphazardly strewn items across the room. It's underneath his stomach, pulsating rhythmically beneath his bland tee, and he tiredly opens it.

"Sam! Where are you?"

Rubbing the morning crust out of his eyes and looking to the clock for the time, he realizes school had started over an hour ago. That would explain why Ellie is yelling in his ear, but it won't explain why Ellie is _desperately_ yelling in his ear.

"Ellie? How'd you get my phone number?"

"Casey gave it to me, but that's not important right now," she says urgently. "Where are you?"

He sits up, awake now, and pinches his forehead between his index and thumb. "I'm, uh, I wasn't feeling well. From where Trey, y'know, took a slice at me. Why?"

She groans over the line and it echoes. Sam figures she's in the bathroom. "I have no clue where Noah is! He fucking disappeared off the radar, dude! His parents said he never came home last night, not that they knew where he was, but still. He drank a lot, and I'm scared that something happened. His parents have already talked to the police and everything, and they sent out a missing person's.

"I was going to take him home yesterday, make sure he got there safely with how out of it he was and everything. But after the incident with Trey he was just gone, and I figured he had hitched a ride home with someone else. But...there's no trace of him. You don't think Trey could've done something, do you?"

Throughout the whole explanation, Sam had quickly snatched a notebook from his dresser and began jotting down quick little snippets of notes. He reads back over them carefully, then shakes his head. "No, Trey isn't responsible for this, trust me. I was watching him the entire time from the moment he came in."

"Even when you were necking with Casey?" she says, and Sam has to roll his eyes at that. "Sorry," she recovers, "I didn't mean for that to come out as a bite. I'm just worried."

"I got that. I don't know what could have happened, Ellie, I'm sorry. But please, if you get any information could you please let me know?"

The other end of the line is quiet, until Sam hears a faint sniffle. He feels a pang in his gut at that, and closes his eyes in sympathy for the girl. She cares about Noah deeply, and so does Sam, so he is going to figure what was going on here today. That's two strange happenings at the Halloween party so far—not really a coincidence, either.

"Yeah," she says softly. "For sure."

Ellie doesn't even give Sam the chance to say goodbye before she hangs up, and he's stopped with his mouth open. Closing it, he furrows his eyebrows. That's when the door of his bedroom decides to open, and Dean waltzes in with a grin quirked on his face. When he sees Sam's confused and distressed features, though, phone in his hand, he halts immediately, a grim expression overtaking the previous joy.

"Who?" is all he asks, and Sam looks up at him helplessly.

"My friend. His name is Noah."

"Is or was?"

Sam lets his eyes uselessly trail around the room with a troubling uncertainty. "I don't know," he whispers.

* * *

The floor of the Impala grumbles beneath his feet as it roars across the deserted blacktop. There are no other cars in sight, the muscle-car being the only vehicle occupying the space for now. Light rock plays through the speakers, the heat blasting on high, old legos taking up their normal rattling that they loved so much.

"So, this Noah. How do you know him?" Dean asks him cautiously, as though he was a fragile piece of glass. Sam doesn't need Dean to be careful, though. This is just like any other hunt. Besides, Noah could still be alive.

"He's my best friend. Met him when I first got to school. He's kept me pretty high up on the popularity ladder for once, actually. He's got a younger sister, hasn't gotten into too much trouble. In fact, he's supposed to be leaving to go all the way to Germany today, but…" Dean patiently waits for more as Sam regathers his thoughts. "I guess he's not going now. According to his girlfriend Ellie, he'd drunk a lot at the party."

Dean chuckles. "Alcohol, hm? We talking some sweet Guinness or JD?"

Sam cocks his head. "Pretty sure a kid named Daniel brought in some vodka," he says.

"Ooh. What kind are we thinking of here?"

"Devil Springs."

He laughs harshly when Dean chokes at that, sputtering out mangled, incomplete phrases. It takes him a few seconds before he finally settles with just saying, "Oh. _Wow_."

For the remainder of the car ride, they spend the time going over possible scenarios that may have went down the previous night. When Sam's abdomen starts to ache again, Dean snatches the white prescription painkillers from the glove compartment and hands them to his brother. Sam makes a face, but when Dean glares at him he knows not to argue. They don't usually make him drowsy, so he figures he should be fine, but nevertheless he is still wary to be taking them. He isn't anymore when it provides satisfactory relief.

For normal people, it would appear that they had a rather extensive amount of medical supplies stashed for a car. However, to Sam and Dean, they're actually decently low. They had gotten the pills from an aswang hunt in Mississippi when their father had been pretty clawed up, and although it was only one bottle, it had proceeded to last them a few months since then. The only other things they have are a few ACE bandages and antiseptic bottles, with half a container of antibiotics to protect against infection.

Sam hates that he even has to worry about the amount of first aid they have in the first place. What kind of teenager cleans their guns weekly and sews up the torn and tattered flesh of their family after a life-threatening injury?

"You think too loud," Dean comments, taking one hand off the steering wheel to lower the music as they pull onto the off-road that leads to the location of the party.

Sam smiles wryly. "Is that so?"

"Yeah. It is. Look, I know you're concerned about your friend and all, and stressed that tomorrow's...y'know…but look. We'll find him, okay? You're probably hating Dad and me for pulling you into this mess, and I've said it before, but I'm sorry, man. I am."

The car jerks on the gravel paving and Sam has to hold onto the handle of the door as they slow to a stop. "I don't hate you, Dean. I never will," he corrects.

Dean leans forward to ruffle his brother's hair, and Sam shoos the intruding hand away. "You're such a girl," Dean says, opening the door. It's still the early morning. The sun breaks through the trees in fractured rays, the leaves and branches of the treetops cutting the light in different directions. He's stopped dead in his tracks, though, when four cruiser cars are lined up on the rims of the dirt pathways.

Dean gets out of the car across from him. "They're investigating this place already?" Sam wonders.

The elder hunter scoffs. "You got a missing person's for a child, sickly worried parents, and tons of townsfolk scared out of their wits for a vanished teen, probably concerned for their own children's safety. It's a small place. What'd you expect? 'Course the cops are going to be crawling this place—it's the last area Noah was seen."

Sam lowers his eyes. "Guess I just didn't want this to be that real," he says quietly. "Sure, a lot of people die on the job, but he's my friend. It's never been this close."

They've lost many more people than they would like to admit due to this gig, and it pains him every time. To have the capability to be able to save someone and not do so is always heartbreaking, and the next day is often filled to the brim with emptiness. However, it's never hit as close to home as it has now aside from Tyler, and Sam's scrambling to try and get his head back in the game. If he wants to try and bring Noah back to his family, he can't be preoccupied with guilt-complexes and self-hatred.

"We'll find him, kid," Dean assures again, and Sam understands they both know that it's a promise with no meaning, neither of which they take comfort in. He doesn't respond, instead walking off toward the clearing they took to get to the cove that night.

"Sam, wait," his brother calls, and Sam slows his pace to a slow lumber to let his brother catch up. Dean comes to a stand beside him and takes something out of his pocket. It's a fake badge, complete with a fake alias and a fake name.

Sam can't resist the roll of his eyes. He swats the leather down, saying, "Dude, nobody is going to believe you're—" he looks down at the identification, "—a _sheriff_ from the northern offices of NC. You look like you just passed puberty and live in your mother's basement."

Dean frowns. "Bite me. We'll just hang around the edges of the forest and try and see what they're doing. I wanted to use this, though," he pouts.

"Tough."

They move off the trail and further into the shaded areas. Sam takes point and leads them through the fallen branches and shrubbery, marking a layout of where the small beach area of the lake extended to in his mind. It's surrounded by trees on all three sides, so as long as they head to an area where they can keep to themselves, they should be fine to sit silently and figure out what's going on.

Among other training exercises they constantly do with their father, tracking is one of the main ones. They've done a multitude of different scenarios including hand-to-hand combat, physical endurance, and even a paintball getup one time in a wooded area. That one was at least interesting, but had nevertheless been painful with the many bruises they had to deal with the following day.

That's why Sam's not surprised when Dean points out something that no ordinary person would have spotted. They've been watching the many cruisers pulling up as the morning progresses, and the numerous officers inspecting the broken glass bottles of alcohol left embedded into the sand and few blankets still scattered around the place. It screams teenage etiquette and irresponsibleness. He doesn't miss Dean's short and addled looks at him.

There's even a few dogs, trying to sniff out something that may lead to where the missing teen disappeared off to. They take care to stay upwind of them, but when Dean manages to catch sight of some broken branches and a few small fragments of blue cloth to the east, they immediately start moving. Upon further inspection and a closer look, Sam confirms it's definitely a ripped piece of Noah's shirt. Not good. Pretty damn shitty, in fact, if you'd ask him.

Another ten minutes of tracking later and they approach a semi-secluded opening, the trail stopping abruptly. It's not as though the original path was hard to follow, either. Whoever had came through here had taken no precautions in being careful—leaving disturbed dirt, bent trees, and occasional marks that had the semblance of dragging.

The more time that passes, the more anxious Sam becomes. Dean tries to settle him, but at this point Sam's practically convinced himself of the worst.

Rightly so.

Not more than thirty seconds of searching the clearing, Dean whistles for him. Sam hurries over and kneels down next to his brother; the damp ground and leaves wet his jeans, leaving mud stains that he'll hate himself for later. His brother points one finger down to the ground, and although it takes Sam a moment to separate it from the rest of the camouflaged shrubbery, he can effortlessly spot the bloodstains. Dry.

"Fuck…" Sam breathes. He studies the marks for a moment, calculating, then directs his gaze back to his brother's. "That's a really tight circle… Back there we saw drag marks," he mumbles to himself, "and here, it's almost like…"

When he looks at the sky he falls on his ass, hand subconsciously traveling to cover his mouth in shock. From his peripherals he sees Dean's confused face that gradually morphs from pensive curiosity to dumbstruck horror when he follows Sam's gaze.

"Well...shit."

Hanging about them is the mangled, shredded heap of flesh that used to be a teenage boy. Noah's arms are spread between the high tree branches, sharpened wood skewering straight through his arms in different spots. He's draped amongst the leaves, corpse in a near-sitting position. Beyond the pendulous gore and intestines, Sam can see that his stomach has been slit open and his guts are strewn throughout the cascading vines and trunks, an echo of terror left in his open and devoid eyes. His grisly legs are suspended lax, torn to shreds with pieces of skin dangling off. Blood coats the trees in a splatter; a metallic scent wafts through the atmosphere, causing Sam to choke.

"Look away, Sammy," Dean orders, and he dimly feels hands on his shoulders dragging him away. He goes with the motions, being led cautiously over hills and ridges, before he finally can take no more and collapses to the ground, dry-heaving. Visions of the remains flood his mind. Gagging, he spits out bile, and without realizing it leans into the touch of his brother's hand on his shoulder.

"My God," Dean whispers and tightens a fist in the cotton of Sam's tee. "Fucking hell…"

Breathing heavily, Sam turns himself so he's on his butt, holding himself up via his hands. He tries to speak, but no words come out.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but I had to get us out of there. The hounds will catch that scent in no time."

Sam shakes his head, swallowing hard. He closes his eyes.

_Scarlet paint, turning the muddy forest into an abstract work of macabre art. Open eyes…pleading…no answer. Broken fingers, tangled hair…_

Sometimes people forget that Sam's just a seventeen year-old kid. Innocent and pure, trapped in death's throes.

Another scar to wield in his mind—another burden to carry with him forever. Because this isn't leaving him. Not ever.

_This could've been him._

* * *

On the way back to the cabin, Dean doesn't make a move to speak to him, and Sam doesn't complain. He's content with this silence, rather than his brother uselessly attempting to drive some sort of excuse—of forced compassion—into him. He clenches and unclenches his fingers folded on his lap in a symphony. Timed rhythms. A move that their father taught them to bring down stress: distraction among focusing on other parts of your body, making them settle themselves and the muscles relax.

It isn't working.

He can't stop reliving that one moment, trapped in an endless loop of a lurid depiction of horror, his friend dismembered and gutted in the trees. What about his little sister? What about his parents? Ellie? Tonight they're going to be given the news that their brother, son, _boyfriend_, has been killed with one of the most barbaric of methods, and Sam's the one who found him.

He can't do this.

Dean had taken the initiative—and thankfully _he_ had been in the right mindset—to cover their tracks and make it seem as though they were never there. Ghosts of witnesses, come and gone. The cops shouldn't have anything to track back to them even existing. Since Sam was a close friend to Noah, though, he'll probably end up having to be interrogated shortly.

He doesn't know if he can handle that. His breathing is picking up, but he can't stop and suddenly it's far too hard to get air to flow through his lungs than it should be.

"Sam, calm down."

"Dean," he pleads, and he can feel a tear leak down his cheek, trailing ever so slowly to his neck and marking a path of shame. He's held off the waterworks till now, but now the devastating reality is setting in, and it's so heavy that it's crushing him underneath its weight.

Dean seems to be debating something, eyes tracking back and forth from the road, to Sam, and back again. Finally, he makes a decision and jerks the steering wheel, pulling the vehicle to the side of the blacktop. Putting the shift in park, he completely turns his body to face Sam, watching him angrily wipe away his emotions.

"It's not your fault," Dean says simply, passionately. Sam curls into himself slightly, but his brother snatches his shoulders and keeps him upright. "It's _not your fault_."

_How could it not be?_ Sam thinks self-deprecatingly. He'd strove to convince his family so damn hard that he was the one that's correct, and that everybody else was barking up the wrong tree. But all along, it was _him_. And his friend paid the dire cost of his ignorance.

"Sam, this has gotta stop right now," his brother begs. "The guilt. Blaming yourself, man, it's going to kill you. Why in the world would you think that? How could you have known there was another monster at work here? None of us knew, so why would _you_? Not Dad, not me, and certainly not—"

Hold on. "Wait, what?" Sam interrupts. He blinks. "What do you mean by that?"

Dean huffs, pausing. "God, I swear," he says. "You may be the smartest kid I know, but you can be a stupidly dumb idiot at the same time. You can't seriously think that this was the daemon. You know better. Just think about it."

So Sam does. And in doing so, the light bulb switches on so quick that he physically snaps his head up.

"There you go," Dean says. "All of the previous kills have been animals. Farm animals—herbivores and domesticates, according to Kelly. This was a human, for one." Sam flinches. "So that's one strike out of the pattern. Next thing: did you see any of that blue residue? Because I sure as hell didn't, and that's one thing that has been our main indicator. There was nothing." He ticks this on his fingers.

"And finally, Noah was killed for a completely different purpose. He wasn't _eaten_, so it's obviously not for survival. Third strike. This was a display. He was in the fucking trees, for Christ's sake! That trail was way too easy to follow and I knew it, I just wasn't smart enough to point it out. Thought I might be wrong, but I'm sure you noticed it looking back too, didn't you?"

Sam nods. Dean's right, and slowly he starts to calm himself, taking a deep breath. He's sure he has tear tracks on his face, but he doesn't care, because he knows that Dean doesn't care, and that makes everything all right.

"I'm good. Let's go."

"You sure? We can take a moment, you know."

"No, it's fine. Drive."

The car is started back up and the remainder of the ride back is a lot more comfortable than it was before. They pull into the driveway, Sam leaning back against his seat in disgust when he sees the black truck parked parallel to the house.

"Shit," he mutters.

Deans scoffs. "Yeah. Shit's right."

Together they make their way inside and instantly come across their father vigorously cleaning the guns at the table. Realization slams into him. His stomach plummets to the ground hard, and he suddenly feels sick. Again. The hunt is today. The hunt is _today_, and he had completely forgotten about it in the chaos of the past 48 hours.

John looks up at their arrival, slowly setting the firearms and cleaning kits down. He arches an eyebrow. "So where have you guys been?" he asks.

Dean and Sam exchange furtive glances, before Dean finally has mercy on his little brother and speaks up. "We were looking for Sam's friend."  
Their dad folds his arms and rests them on the table, disinterested. "Looking?"

Sam shuffles on the balls of his feet, planning on staying hushed, but something overtakes him and he finds himself answering, "My friend Noah. He went missing from a party last night." He didn't think he'd be able to answer without a tremble in his voice, but somehow he manages it. All he really wants to do now is go burrow himself underneath the covers of his bed and hide away with maybe a snuck-in bottle of alcohol, crying his eyes out. Like that'll happen, though—it's just a dream.

Mourning doesn't fit in John Winchester's schedule of misshapen revenge.

"So, he's knocked out somewhere in a ditch from chugging too much beer. He'll find his way back home sometime or another. Start helping me clean the guns. We're catching this thing tonight."

"No," Dean says quietly, nothing but a bare whisper. Their dad looks up curiously. "He's dead. We found him."

Sam looks away, focusing on something else that's on the far side of the room. It's a small trinket, made of gold and delicate carvings. He keeps his eyes on that even while can feel his father's gaze on him, but Sam can't bring himself to face him right now. He's still too emotional, and any crack in his strong form will result in weakness from John's perspective.

Now that he thinks about it, spending an entire day in bed and bawling seems a lot more reasonable than having an emotional breakdown in front of his family. He's already done it in front of Dean, and he most certainly won't do it in front of his dad, too. Every once and awhile, the barrier of stone has to fall and let the inside-dwellers to the outside world. You can't keep everybody captive inside a fortress of delusion, even if it keeps them safe. They'll lose their sanity.

"I'm sorry," John tells him, no hint of sympathy. False melancholy. A façade. "So you see this thing needs to die now, don't you? I wish we could've stopped it before this happened, but hopefully that'll be the last and only kid that dies."

Dean shoves his way back into the conversation. "No, Dad. It's not the daemon we're after, here. There's something else. Sammy's been right all along."

John laughs lightly. "Yeah, right. Good joke. Tell me another. You're saying both mine and Caleb's research was wrong? What's gotten into you, Dean?" He gets up from his seat and snares a duffel bag from the floor, bringing it atop the table, and begins putting the extensive array of weapons inside.

"What's gotten into me?" Dean asks, fuming. "What's gotten into _you_, Dad? You used to be all about morals and getting justice for Mom, and I've stood right behind you the entire time without question. We've been on the trail of that monster for _decades_, and it's gone cold! We're supposed to be saving people and doing the right thing, helping out the world because nobody else will. What happened to get us to the point where _we_ are the ones that are doing the wronging?"

"Dad, please," Sam adds. "If you could spend one moment, just _one second_ to listen to us for once in your life, do it now. Noah was gutted and hung in the trees to rot to make a point. There was no substance, there was _nothing_ to even tie this to the daemon. There's two monsters here, and we're going after the wrong one."

Their father looks back and forth between the two of them, bag halfway raised to his shoulder and ready to walk out the door. Sam prays hard, because if their dad leaves, then there won't be much of a chance of stopping him. They all know that.

Finally, the duffel is lowered to the floor and dropped with a loud _clang_, the weapons hitting against each other inside. Sam exhales in relief and Dean visibly relaxes.

"Fine. We'll talk about this tomorrow." He looks at his younger son. "We don't need to do this today."

Sam's lips pull into a smile at the corners.

* * *

He spends the rest of the day in bed thinking. He spends most of the night thinking, too.

There's no way Sam can sleep in light of what happened to his friend, and while Dean snores softly next to him, it's not enough to lull Sam into rest. So he thinks, and he thinks hard.

That's why, around one in the morning, he's awake to hear the screen door hit its frame loudly, reverberating throughout the house. If he were asleep he wouldn't have acknowledged it—wouldn't have even twitched. But he isn't, so he hears it, and during his hardcore thinking sessions, he's learnt exactly what's happening.

He _knew_ his father had given up too easily.

Leaping out of bed, he shakes Dean's feet to wake him and says plainly, "Dad's gone. We've got to go now if we're going to catch him."


	6. Chapter 6

"Man, if Dad was going to pick a time to do something behind our backs and try and double-cross us, couldn't he have done it at, like, a reasonable hour?" Dean complains, walking toward Sam who is anxiously leaning on the Impala and waiting for his brother. Little puffs of breath are visible receding from Dean's parted lips as he hustles over, hands in the pockets of his jacket and arms wrapped around his midsection. "And when it was a little less...cold?"

In the past day, the weather had taken a sudden plummet to the thirties, ripping layers of clothes from where they lay dormant in people's closets and dragging them into the open. Sam's got on a simple parka and nothing more, making up for warmth in physical mobility. Dean's donned a similar slim coat. If something were to happen and they had to be ready to utilize fight or flight, then heavy clothes would do nothing but get them killed. Another trick from their dad.

And boy, Sam was really hating just one person in his life right now, and it was completely all directed at his father. It was strange how unresistingly he had complied with the boys' plan. Sam should've seen this coming, really. Small blessing in disguise, he supposes, being kept awake by his thoughts.

Don't get him wrong, Sam is still wanting to do nothing more but lay down and sleep, maybe even _grieve_ his friend, but right now he has to make a decision, and it's either help save something and somebody's life or spend a few hours with a glass bottle. Not a hard one.

A strong gust of chilled wind snaps Sam back to reality. "Tough it up," he says, stepping back and opening the passenger's door.

"Yeah, 'tough it up'," Dean mocks in a snobby voice, sarcasm dripping from his words. "Right. It's the freakin' quiet apocalypse out here, and I'm having to go catch and stop my father from doing something he shouldn't be like a toddler. God, he's such a child sometimes."

Sam stops midway through getting into his seat, perusing his brother.

"What?" Dean asks.

"Nothing." Sam shrugs. "Just never seen you _this _against Dad for anything."

"Shut up and get in the car. We've got to go. And for the record? I said it once and I'll say it again. I respect that man with a passion. Hell, he's kept us alive, so how could I not? He's kept _you_ alive, and no matter what he does to piss me off, I love 'im. But sometimes enough is just...enough."

Sam joins his brother in the Impala. "Me too," he says. "I love him. But sometimes...I don't know. I just wish he'd drop the whole martyr routine and act like a father."

Like most of the ones they've had recently, the car ride is nothing but the crackling static of the radio singing. Sam wonders how he's going to stop his father if it even gets to that point, but decides to cross that bridge _if_ it comes to that. They'll figure something out by then, surely. _He hopes…_

"How'd you know that Dad was going to go looking for the daemon in the woods off Brinkton?" Dean asks suddenly.

Sam smiles grimly at the reminder. "He made me study the exorcism to help banish it the day of the party. It was in his journal. He writes a lot, and the location of its hunting grounds was at the top of the page. Plus, Brinkton is right next to Carrigan Farms."

"Hmph." Dean nods. "Speaking of, how is Kelly, by the way? Last I heard she was driven into near hysterics over her animals."

Sam's saved from answering a question he doesn't know the answer to by the sound of his ringtone. It's a song from Metallica's _Ride the Lightning_, and had gotten approval from Dean quite a while ago when he'd first gotten his phone. He hasn't bothered to change it, and strangely, he's gotten used to hearing the song play.

"You going to answer that?"

Sam's lips pull into a thin line. "Who would even be calling me at—" he checks his watch, "—two in the morning?"

"One way to find out."

Sam flips the top up and raises it to his ear. He freezes and bows his head, though, when a voice he definitely did not expect comes sounding through the line.

"_Sam?"_ Ellie says, clearly distraught and crying.

"Ellie…"

"_I swear to fucking God if you say you're fucking sorry for my loss I will rip your dick off and mail it to Montana," _she snarls wetly. "_I don't want to hear you come up with some pitiful fucking excuse. I just called to tell you if I see you again, I'll skin you. I swear to God, I will. _

"_Noah is dead. And while you were too busy making a scene with Ralston he was being fucking killed. If everybody was where they were supposed to be, not screwing around with you guys, maybe someone would've _seen _something and he wouldn't have wandered off into the woods into the hands of some...some creature. He'd be halfway to Germany with his family, with his sister, and enjoying a life that no longer fucking exists. Do you know what she is going through? What _I _am going through? Fucking hell."_

"Ellie—"

"_Fuck off, Sam. Don't call me."_

With that the line goes dead and Sam holds the phone to his head for a few seconds in stupefaction.

"Sounds like that went well," Dean remarks, obviously having heard the exchange.

"So well…" Sam agrees sardonically. "It'll take some time for her to come to terms. I don't hold her accountable for putting the blame on me. In a way, she's right about what she said."

Dean huffs. "No, she's not. But _I_ hold _you_ accountable for blaming yourself," he grumbles. "Not your fault."

Sam snorts. "Sure."

"Hey!" his brother says, taking one hand off the steering wheel and whacking the back of Sam's hair.

Sam shoves it away, forehead crinkled. "Ow."

"You say one more thing about Noah's death being your fault, I swear to God I'll slit your vocal cords so you can no longer do so. That's a warning."

"Gee, thanks."

"Bitch."

Dean gives him one last disapproving look before he turns his attention back to the road, turning off onto a dirt pathway. With all of the streets in this city that are made of gravel and rocks, Sam's sure his brother is way past his functioning point of being somewhat fine with driving the precious Impala on it. It's obvious in his brother's tense muscles. Or maybe that's just what Sam is telling himself to avoid the fact they're both doing something that could have disastrous results.

Sneaking up on their dad who is wielding firearms and ready to kill? A supernatural creature in the mix? Dean's worried, meaning Sam's worried, and all around everybody's concerned about the forthcoming events. Nothing a little whiskey won't fix, Dean usually says, and Sam would kill for some reserved time to drink. Underage be damned.

But yeah…that's not happening.

Dean brings the car to a stop in a small clearing on the brink ("_Ha, get it?" _Sam dryly jokes, and isn't surprised when the attempt falls flat) of the Brinkton forest, just before the trees begin to morph from sparsely scattered to nearly unnavigable. The lean trunks stretch high into the sky, as though reaching for something further. Something more. The stars, maybe.

Sam wants something more. But the trees won't get what they long for. He won't either.

He wonders if it'll snow tonight. He hasn't really had time to contemplate the radar. With it being black as pitch and leaves sheltering the sky, it's possible dark clouds are looming over them. The temperature was nice, if not a bit chilly, at the party on the beach, leaving just enough warmth for people to want to go skinny dipping in the water. Now, though, it's as cold as some of the hunts they've had in the northern states like New York.

The freakin' melodramatic, changing climate of the southeast.

Sam's always hated their southern hunts. Hot and muggy weather was constant, with cold fronts that would rapidly approach from the west bringing storms and heavy rain. Actually, Sam's always hated their _any_ hunts.

They get out of the Impala together, Sam releasing a short breath of air as the cold locks onto his face and freezes it over. "God..." he mutters, and moves to the trunk to pick up some of the supplies they've scavenged from the cabin. Their father had taken most of the firearms with him, but they had way too many for the old man to steal them all. Dean still has his Beretta, and Sam his classic white-handled .45. It's enough.

"So, what's the plan here?" Dean suddenly asks, looking up.

Sam shrugs. "I was kinda banking on the fact that you had one."

"So we're just winging it, then?"

"I suppose."

"That always works out well for us." Dean sighs. "All right, Samantha, get a move on. We're not far behind him, and we need to catch his trail quickly in order to keep up."

Sam bites his lip.

"What?" Dean asks.

"Just...thanks, Dean. I appreciate you taking my side on this hunt for once. With everything that goes on...I don't know, it's just sometimes seemed like you always believed Dad over me."

The older brother gags. "God, please, kill me now," he moans. "Another one of these moments and I swear I'll start to think that we're actually just the characters of a really corny chick-flick."

The moment's ruined, and they both know to start their way into the forest. Sam takes care to ensure he doesn't trip over any of the elevated ridges or sticks, avoiding slippery moss and leaves.

The brief thought of camping comes unexpectedly to Sam's mind, and he crushes it hastily. Camping? The only time they've gone camping has been when they've been on a black dog or wendigo hunt. It doesn't really bring about the whole "vacation away from settlement in peace and tranquility" vibe. More like worrying about your life and if the Anasazi symbols would fail, rendering you a free buffet of meat for a hungry monster's mouth. Yeah...that's definitely more like it.

It's around ten minutes since they've left the car when Sam hears it. Well, the better term would be _doesn't_ hear it.

He stops moving and Dean does the same, confused but trusting his younger brother's intellect. "Listen," Sam whispers.

They do, and the only thing that returns to them is complete and utter silence.

"Wow," Dean says. "An entire forest full of animals and insects, with not even a cricket's sound? At night? That's not a good sign. I thought you said the daemon was a nature spirit?"

"I thought it was."

_And he wouldn't be wrong._

Startled, both brothers draw their pistols in record time, cocking the hammer and aiming into the trees. Sam's heart is suddenly pounding, and adrenaline is pumping through his veins. The only problem is...Sam's aiming to the left and Dean's aiming slightly behind him.

"That wasn't you, right?" Dean questions, voice low and hushed.

"Most definitely not."

But then where did the voice come from, if Sam's aiming one way and Dean another? There's nothing there. Just shadows—not even the slightest hint of movement in the treeline.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean slowly backing up so that they're pushed against each other. A protective hand is placed at his side, and without fully looking Sam knows it's his brother's. Years of protectiveness has been drilled into Dean's movements that it's now an instinctive, constant thing. Not that Sam'd ever admit it, but it felt nice having someone look out for you in that kind of way: possessive and loving.

"Who's there?" Dean asks in that demanding, cold hunting tone that indicates he's not unprepared to kill if need be. "Stop being a fucking coward and show yourself."

Sam shifts on his feet, eyes glued to the foliage and searching for threats.

_Coward? Am I not the one to seek you out in the first place?_

Dean doesn't respond, but instead flinches and wildly looks around in a circle, muzzle of his gun dropping to his side. "The fuck…" he says, and Sam supposes it's mostly to himself. It's almost as if the mysterious voice is surrounding them in the air, tones dropping in and out of their general vicinity as though it's simply coming from the sky.

_You have a lot to learn, young ones._

"Sam?" Dean questions hopefully.

"I have no idea," he admits. He also doesn't miss how Dean immediately goes to him for problems they have no answer to—as though Sam knows everything in the whole entire world and is a talking encyclopedia that spouts out lore. It's comforting, is what it is. With the lack of pride he's been given throughout his entire life, knowing somebody can rely on him as such puts a smile to his face.

But this time, he doesn't know.

_Samuel and Dean Winchester, am I correct?_

The two brothers exchange glances, silently communicating. "You want to talk Q&A, show yourself first," Sam spits out. Dean looks nervous, posture still standing so that he's in front of Sam to the best of his ability.

Sam knows it's not that Dean doesn't trust him to hold his own. They both know that he's turning into one hell of a fine hunter and that he can easily take care of himself. But since they were little, Dean's been the one, the only one, looking out for Sam, and now it's just a routine practiced and drilled into their minds—a habit neither one of them have tried, or wanted, to fix. If Sam were to lose his brother or vice versa...well, neither of them would survive much longer.

_You've been blindly giving me your faith this whole time. Why do you not provide it now, as your father is currently hunting me down with an unorthodox ritual and weapon that will prove useless against me? You must know self-defense is a mechanism I'm not afraid to bring to light._

Sam halts, thinks, then shakes his head. He switches his safety back on, taking a small step forward. "The daemon?" he tries.

_Call me Ihtiras, young one. _

"Ihtiras…" Sam repeats, gears turning. "I've heard that before. Turkish? Means passion?"

_Or ambition, rather. You're very knowledgeable._

"How the fuck do you know that?" Dean asks, bemused.

Sam ignores him.

"So, I've been right this whole time. You didn't kill my friend."

_Your friend? The child who wandered into the forest? Never. I tried to save him, in fact._

Dean rolls his eyes, clearly impatient, and says, "Okay, you know what? Hold on here. This 'mystical voice in the air' thing is freaking me out. You're right—we've been trusting you this entire time. So have a little faith in _us _and show yourself."

_My true form is incomprehensible to your vision. _

Dean raises his arms outward and lets them drop. "Of course. Great."

_But I can show you a condensed version of myself._

At that, things speed up. Suddenly, there's a bizarre orange mist seemingly emanating from the trunks of the trees, drifting slowly toward them. It's pale and translucent, with small pinpricks of light that swirl about each other, making a river of luminescence against the backdrop of the forest.

Cautiously, Sam takes a step back, in awe at the light. It gracefully moves throughout the atmosphere in deft motions, looping around both of the brothers in a complete circle. The back of Sam's mind points out to him that he's now surrounded, survival instinct informing him of his predicament. He forces himself to keep calm, though, and stays steady on his feet. Aware, but...collected.

_Don't fear me, child. I am here to help._

After a few seconds, Sam sees a dark figure lingering in the treeline past the mist, its entire form black. Gradually, the creature takes a few steps toward them, ducks under the orange glow, and enters their proximity. Only then does Sam recognize what he's looking at.

Standing before them is the muscled body of a fully matured canine. A wolf, to Sam's best guess.

He couldn't determine its color before, but now, in the light, he can easily take in the pure white fur, its top layer caked with mud and dirt. It stands tall and proud, muzzle high, with forest green eyes gazing at them assessingly. The tip of the wolf's snout is coated with crimson, obvious fresh blood covering its mouth and lips.

It seems to smirk at them, as though it were mocking their reactions.

_Impressed?_

Dean blinks. "Uh, yeah, I suppose. For a mutt."

The wolf cocks its head. _A mutt? _Ihtiras wonders. _I am far from a mutt, boy. I suppose this is why I had to use a bit more persuasion on you to agree with your brother._

Sam snaps his gaze back to Ihtiras from where it had been previously trained on Dean. "Persuasion?" he echoes.

_A small nudge,_ Ihtiras clarifies. _He wasn't just going to give me the benefit of the doubt like you were, and I could see you cared about him a lot. So I helped him understand._

Dean turns and raises his gun swiftly. Aiming it at the daemon, his features darken and he growls, "So you're telling me you screwed with my mind, you dick?"

Ihtiras doesn't even flinch. _You weren't going to side with your brother, and the Jiuweihu was affecting your emotions. I needed your help. I barely even did anything—just showed you the accurate books about me instead of the ones with discrepant conclusions._

Sam feels something inside of him break. This whole time, he'd been thinking that Dean'd had some abrupt change of heart because he was his brother and had faith in him. He'd thought Dean was actually trusting him for once. In reality, though, it was just Dean being...Dean. Following their father without question, opinions unbiased and set it stone. It took the creature—the very same creature they were hunting—to manipulate his mind in order to believe him. That hurt. Badly.

Now isn't the time to wallow, however. They've got more pressing matters than for Sam to be crying his heart out about how he isn't trusted by his family. It's stupid, either way. He's just a kid, so what does he know?

Sam uses his hand to lower Dean's arm, and is glad his brother doesn't resist when the pistol falls to his side. "Hold on," Sam says, masking his anger and hurt with solidity. "We're both _very_ confused. You're giving us no context about anything. And a Jiuweihu? What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

Ihtiras raises a paw, then sits back on his hackles. He looks at Sam strangely, as though reading his emotions, but then blinks and directs his gaze to Dean. Never abandoning eye contact, he says without preemption, _You came here looking for a creature that was killing livestock and nothing more. Me. You don't realize that you brought yourself into a situation far more complicated than that. I've lived here for hundreds of years. I've fallen back into the shadows when civilizations intruded on my land, all without complaint. _

_I survived in the forest, feeding only when necessary on small animals. I've helped people when they were at their worst, keeping them from hurting themselves or doing something to endanger others. Humanity is flawed, yet I respect it. Other creatures are not as appreciative. Just recently, another being has, say, moved into my residence. Its name is a Jiuweihu. _

"A nine-tailed fox?" Sam raises his eyebrows. "I thought that was just a myth," he says.

_Many people would say the same thing about me. The Jiuweihu is, in fact, real, and it's here now. I'm not sure how much you know about the stories, but it's ancient. More so than me. It existed at the beginning of the Qin dynasty, revealing itself only to Yu the Great. It's powerful. _

_Usually, a Jiuweihu can be a divine or evil spirit. This particular one _was _good, but when humans began overtaking all of its land, it got angry. Not unlike a lot of other supernatural things. It's been stealing my prey, forcing me to have to come closer to town than I prefer. The farm, as you call it, is my only source of food. But the Jiuweihu is getting desperate. Nourishment is becoming scarce between the two of us, and although we have been at peace with each other temporarily, it is only natural that we are going to start becoming territorial for land._

_I drove him away about two weeks ago, demanding him to find a home elsewhere. This was mine. But these are not creatures who give up easily, and it is returning fiercely. As the Jiuweihu gets more angry, it has an effect on the people around it. Emotions are tampered with, and humans become more directly influenced. I do it for the good, while the Jiuweihu does it for the worse. I'm sure you have noticed uncharacteristic things since you arrived here, have you not?_

"The pistol," Dean says softly.

"And Trey," Sam adds. "You're saying a Jiuweihu was the cause for all of that?"

_It was stalking your cabin one afternoon. I managed to fight it away, but I do not know what it managed to do to you. _

"And so that's the thing that killed Noah?" Sam asks, already knowing the answer.

_Yes. _

"Trey was affected. That's the whole reason he pulled the knife," Sam tells his brother, even though it's already the most obvious thing. "I knew it. Goddamnit, I'm such an idiot!" He kicks the ground.

He should've ignored the other boy. He shouldn't have even picked a fight with him, and he should've been more aware. He let his teenage rebellion stand in his way, though, and it cost his friend his life.

"Sam…" Dean cautions, and he shuts his mouth. Glaring at the tips of his boots, he bites his lip and says nothing more, feeling like a chastised child who just took the last cookie from the jar.

A few moments pass. It's then that Dean takes a few steps forward, turns around and goes back to his starting position. It happens again. And again. Sam tracks him each time, and he can see Ihtiras doing the same, as though confused at this pointless movement.

"Dean, what are you doing?"

"Thinking," is the simple response.

"And you're pacing...why?"

"It's cold."

Sam sighs his annoyance. His brother is so impossible sometimes.

Then, making him flinch, the elder hunter rounds on the wolf, eyes narrowed and face pinched. "Why do you need our help? What can _we_ do? You make it out like you're some all-powerful being that can do some crazy things. Can't you kill this thing yourself and just let things go back to normal? Sounds like all you're doing is letting innocent people die and wasting our time."

Ihtiras growls and curls a lip back, standing to all fours. _My power isn't something I abuse. I use it when necessary, and just that. It's dangerous for any power to be wielded in any circumstance, and the amount I'd have to utilize to kill the Jiuweihu would have horrid consequences for both myself and the people around me. I'm looking to reclaim my land, but not destroy myself by becoming power-hungry at the same time. _

_Maybe I shouldn't have presented myself to you, if you're incompetent enough to believe otherwise; I assumed you were smart, similar to your sibling, but now I'm beginning to see reality. How much do you really care for him? It seems his feelings aren't reciprocated._

This is when Dean breaks. It seems as though it's been a back and forth tug-of-war with Dean's pistol and whether or not to put it to use, but now he rips it out, takes aim, and fires a shot before Sam can even make a move to stop him. The bullet hits home in Ihtiras' leg, and the wolf releases a yelp of shock and jumps back.

The orange mist around them, previously amble and full of serenity, turns to a dark red, then fizzles out into nothingness. It's completely dark again, and Sam knows they've screwed up. No—not _they._ Dean's the one who spilled the milk here, and Sam doesn't often blame Dean for anything.

Ihtiras sprints into the woods, leaving not a trace.

Sam turns to his brother. "You fucking asshole! What the hell did you do?"

Dean shrugs. "If that dick is as powerful as he makes himself out to be, then a normal bullet ain't going to do nothing to him."

"That's—that's not the point!"

"Then what is, Sammy?" Dean questions angrily. "He says that kind of shit to me about me not lovin' you, he gets a bullet. Fair's fair."

Sam silences, processing what Dean said. The Winchesters never say the _L _word directly to each other. Never. Sure, they have their own ways of letting each other know they care—humor, hugs, and (in John's case) extra training—but they simply don't do the whole _I love you_ thing.

Lost in his own thoughts, Sam doesn't immediately notice when something comes crashing through the trees to the right. Dean jumps and places an automatic hand on Sam's sternum, pushing him back, which causes Sam to refocus. He whips out his own gun, prepared to shoot the new threat, then immediately heels.

"Dad?"

Sure enough, there John Winchester stands, own shotgun hefted over his shoulder and pistol aimed down sights. Upon seeing them, though, he drops his weaponry and storms over (literally _storms_—if not for the seriousness of the situation Sam would've laughed his ass off) to them. Sam and Dean both back up a pace simultaneously, but it does not any good because their way-overly-pissed-off father reaches them anyway. Sam begins praying, because nothing can save them now.

They're so screwed.

* * *

The walk back to the cars is tight-lipped.

Sam tries three times to start a conversation.

Sam also fails three times to start a conversation, each attempt denied by his father's sharp, "Shut up, Sam."

Dean just walks. He's probably feeling guilty a hundred times over and like he's the worst person in the world for doing something out of command, coming up with a thousand different ways to make everything up to his lord and savior. But that's okay, because Sam's still furious with him. Talking isn't the card he wants to play right now.

Sam can't keep his mind off the daemon and their conversation either. He tries to draw his thoughts away from it, but they just cycle back to their original place. He won't lie—Dean poses a valid point about how Ihtiras needs their help. He can see the creature's reasoning, though. He'll keep an eye out for sure—hunters always did—but his judgement is leaning more toward trust than suspicion. But what is Dean's standpoint?

He pulls his jacket tighter around him and shudders. Not because it's cold.

They reach the Impala a lot faster than Sam thinks it took them to leave it. That's probably because they're walking at a speed that's hard for even him to keep up with without starting at a jog. John's truck is further west, parked near a ditch so it's more hidden; Sam knows his brother is going to get a good talking to about how leaving his car in the most open and obvious location is not good hunting etiquette. After they're done being murdered for the rest of their stunt tonight, of course.

Upon reaching the hood of the black vehicle, John stops. Sam and Dean silently come to a stand behind him, exchanging equally tense looks, unknowing of what's to come of this situation.

Finally, after what seems an eternity, John turns around to face them and says, "I ought to get my belt out for this one. You boys have done some _stupid_ things, but this…" he pauses, shaking his head and rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin, "this takes the cake."

Sam swallows hard. Never had their dad threatened violence. Heavy workouts are usually enough to motivate them to not be disrespectful, but corporal punishments are usually out of the question.

"Well?" John asks loudly. "Would you care to explain yourselves and why you're out here? You realize you boys could've been killed—or worse, and I...I wouldn't even _know_?"

They don't answer for a short moment. John stares them down, daring a rebuttal. At last, Sam gives it to him.

"It was my fault, Sir," he says. He sees Dean's eyes quickly fix on him, confused.

"Why's that? Seems to be both of you standing in front of me."

"I refused to listen to Dean. He came with me to try and stop me, and protect me."

"Sam—" Dean tries to jump in.

"No, shut up. You're not covering for me this time."

In all reality, Sam thinks he pulls the lie off well. He knows Dean can see what he's doing, and can tell his brother is gradually getting more upset with each of his words. Fine—they're equal. Sam's mad at Dean, Dean's mad at Sam. But just because he's angry doesn't mean he's going to get Dean in trouble for Sam's own actions and beliefs. Sure, Dean helped him, but that was just the daemon's influence, right?

John studies him. "Fine. Well, what happened? I heard a gunshot."

"We had a long conversation with the daemon," Sam answers calmly.

"Conversation? The discharge of a firearm doesn't sound like a conversation."

Sam shrugs. "Dean shot it. We were on even terms. It's not the daemon who killed my friend. It's a Jiuweihu. The daemon is harmless, just trying to salvage what it can."

John seems to think this over. Dean looks at them both like he's surprised they're having an ordinary exchange of words as they are instead of yelling their asses off per usual. Finally, John nods his head. "All right. If you want to convince me, go ahead and do the research. Write me a report—standard format, like always. Tell me why we're believing this creature, and what evidence we have to support it."

Sam has to force himself to not snap back a nasty remark. Instead, he thinks he should be grateful his father is giving him a chance to explain his side of the argument. "I've already done all the research, sir."

"Then put it into words and have me read it."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

John looks around the open space and then gestures to the Impala. "You boys are dismissed. We'll talk about the consequences of your actions later, Sam."

Together, the brothers turn toward their car. Dean opens the driver's door slowly, but Sam can see the tension and frustration in his muscles. This should be an interesting ride home for sure. An argument is surely in store for them both.

Just as Sam's about to get into his own respective seat and sit down, John stops him midway. "And, uh, Sammy?" he asks, face stoic but tone soft.

"Yeah, Dad?"

"You're a good kid," he says. "I need to learn to trust your instincts more. You're becoming one hell of a fine hunter, and an even better man. I just… I want you to be safe. And you doing something like this scares me to hell, but the daemon let you go unharmed. From what I've read about it, it could've killed you both in an instant. That's something I should be thinking about."

A small smile tugs at Sam's lips at the unexpected words of kindness. He doesn't know what to say. Stuffing the little-boy excitedness that seems to bubble up at the praise, he replies, "Thanks, Dad. That means a lot."

Because it really, truly does. That's not a lie.

And even if Sam can't help but wonder if Ihtiras had a play in this or not, he decisively chooses to not care. His father is trusting him, and he should savor that while he can.

* * *

LOL so I've had this story finished for months. I kind of...forgot?

Thank you, Woomie, for the review. Good to know people are still interested in this. You're the reason I'm posting the rest of this tonight. :)


	7. Chapter 7

The blowout happens around three miles away from the cabin. Sam would know—he ran it. He'd expected it to be a lot sooner, but it seemed as though Dean was trying to work out what he was going to say in his mind for most of the ride. That's fine. Sam's doing the same thing. He's been debating with his brain on what to bring up first. Just as he's settled on an apology, Dean speaks.

"So, you got Dad to see reason. I'm kind of surprised he hasn't tossed us out of the house yet. How'd you manage that?" Dean questions him neutrally.

Sam rolls his shoulders in a circle once. "I'm not really sure. Maybe Ihtiras—"

"That douchebag, you mean."

"_Ihtiras_," Sam continues as though uninterrupted, "had something to do with it." Without even looking he can feel Dean's intense glare on the side of his face. Unbothered, he keeps staring at the road. "If you want to say something to me, then go ahead and say it," he tells his brother indifferently.

Dean snorts. "I wanna say so many things to you that I don't know where to start."

Another few seconds of silence pass, and eventually Sam turns the radio off out of irritation. He grabs the painkiller bottle. Dean doesn't say anything as he shakes out two and swallows them—Sam had pretty much forgotten he'd even had a knife wound with everything else that had been going on, and he wouldn't be surprised if Dean had, too. It throbs rhythmically.

"Fine," Sam asserts at last. "I'll go first. I'm sorry for getting angry with you. But I'm not sorry for staying on Ihtiras' side."

Dean bobs his head. "All right. I'm sorry for shooting the bastard," he begins. "But I'm not sorry about making a point that I care about you. You _do _know I care about you, right Sammy?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam mutters to himself bitterly. "Though tell me, Dean, did you ever truly believe me? Or was Ihtiras right? Did he have to _persuade_ you to get you to trust me?"

Dean looks at him with an expression of dumbfoundedness. "You're kidding me."

Sam shrugs and trudges on doggedly. "Not really. With what he said back there, I don't know what to think anymore."

That gets him a hard slap to the arm, and he reels his abused limb back in pain. The flesh stings. He holds it to his chest, then says crossly, "Ow! What the hell was that for?"

"That's for being an idiot, _idiot._"

"Okay...care to elaborate?"

"I cannot _believe _you're so closed-minded. Sure, that dick may have shown me a few resources about it, but my decision was still all me. I'd made up my mind the moment I saw your friend."

Sam twitches at the mention. He's been trying to keep his mind away from that. But now that he thinks more about it, he can remember the second Dean had seen reason. On the brink of his panic attack in the car and when they'd pulled over, his brother consoling him and helping him not freak out. He relaxes.

"Fine. Say you did choose my side since the beginning—"

"I did."

"I believe you. Then what's your generalized standpoint about Ihtiras?"

Dean shakes his head. "Uh-uh. You aren't doing this. You first," he says stubbornly. "I don't want you playing off my opinions just to suit your words to me." Sam fumbles. Stupid smart big brothers.

He turns his gaze to the window, watching the shrubbery pass by through the darkness. For a moment it's just silent, nothing but the two brothers' light breathing and rumble of the car. This is what Sam likes the most—the ability to shut everything else out in the world and just be in their true home.

After a few moments, he begins, "I think we have a limited amount of options, here. If you put it into perspective, we can either be doing this on our own, or we could be doing this with an ally. Not all alliances last, though—in ancient Greece, Sparta banded with Athens to bring down the Persians. Yet, a decade later, they found themselves in the Peloponnesian War on opposing sides."

Dean stares blankly at him. "Okay, I really didn't need a crash-course history lesson, but thanks. What's your point?"

Sam huffs. "My point is, the daemon has given us no reason to distrust it. It even told us about the Jiuweihu. Which," he hurries on before Dean can interrupt him, "of course we don't know is true, but it makes sense with everything else. It all _fits. _But, just blindly trusting him isn't going to be enough."

"There's nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."

Sam cocks his head, confused, then lets out a surprised chuckle. "All right...that's a little strange coming from you. Did you decide to become a philosopher in the past few hours?"

Dean shrugs. "I read it in that book."

"The one for that girl?" He laughs. "Seriously?"

"What? You've barely even had a girlfriend—you wouldn't understand."

Sam frowns. "I've had a few."

"Oh, you mean that one chick when you were fourteen with those ugly-ass braces and pigtails? What'd you guys do, study flashcards?"

The younger brother glowers. He opens his mouth to educate Dean that he actually, kinda, _technically _has Casey right now, but doesn't do as intended when the car pulls into the gravel driveway. Their father's truck is already there, parked laterally to the cabin. Its black skin gleams in contrast to the white moonlight—much like the Impala, a night-rider, camouflaged and secretive. Sam likes to think of it as though the Winchester's know something that nobody else does because of their cars. It makes them special.

Sam hasn't been this unperturbed to see the vehicle ever, though. Usually it correlates with liquor and fights. This time it associates with hope. He grasps at the door handle, prepared to get out, when Dean places a hand on his shoulder.

"Sam…" He sighs. "What was that with Dad?"

Sam tilts his head to the side.

"Where you told him it was your idea," Dean continues softly. "Why? I'm pretty damn sure I had a say in that too, once you woke me up."

"Oh," Sam says, "_that._ I don't know. You're just always trying to make Dad happy. I can never do anything to make him proud of me, so I figured what's being a disappointment again gonna do to me?"

Dean leans back into his seat. "Wow, hormones must seriously be getting to you."

"Shuddup, jerk," Sam says, and opens the car door. Dean stops him once more; at this point, Sam's not sure if he's ever going to be able to get out of the car. He tenses.

"Don't do that again," Dean tells him harshly. "I can take care of myself."

Sam, still not facing Dean, slowly nods. "All right."

With that, he removes himself from the Impala's presence and starts his way to the cabin door, prepared for a long night of writing and researching. He barely catches Dean's deep exhale and mutter of, "Frickin' teenage kids."

He smiles.

* * *

The moment Sam wakes up his mind instantly launches itself to the fact...oh, look at that, it's nine o' fucking clock and he's definitely late to school. It takes a moment for him to regain knowledge of his surroundings and the events leading up to where he is now, but eventually he spies Dean sprawled across the bed to his right, mouth open in a drooling expression.

He slowly lowers himself to the covers again. The sun tries to snake through the shades as per usual, but this time it fails, Sam having taken the time to drape a cloth in front of it. He swears, if he could control the universe, he would've never even thought to create the sun. What the fuck does it do for them? He closes his eyes. Just gives them the light and warmth to live, he supposes. No biggie.

Sam flops himself over onto his stomach and lets his tangled hair drape around him. There's this pressing feeling in his gut that he can't shake; there, just constantly pushing down, and Sam stands as a bystander as the memories wash over him. Today is indeed the second day of November. His thoughts drift to his mom. And to Noah.

"_What's your name, kid?"_

_Sam snaps his gaze up from where he'd been eating his lunch alone—nothing out of the ordinary. A tall boy with similar dusty chestnut hair approaches him, holding out his lunch tray as if questioning if he could sit down._

"_Uh...Sam. Winchester," he says, voice reserved and cautious. He really isn't in the mood to be picked on today. Four days into this shitty town and he's already the laughing stock of the school—not like that's a rare anomaly, but still._

He hears Dean shift in his sleep next to him, and the deep breaths exhaled that indicate a restful night of tranquility. What he'd give to get an uninterrupted sleep he doesn't know. All he can think of are the empty eyes that stare back at him through the trees.

Noah was a good person.

"_I can introduce you to some of my friends if you want," he says, looking hopeful. "Must get pretty lonely talking to the ghosts over here." Sam barely represses a laugh at that. "C'mon, sit with us._"

_And so Sam does._

His placid form, dangling from the branches, impaled by nature that's supposed to be comforting and and a notion of life. Sam doesn't think he'll be able to look at a forest the same way again.

Now that the adrenaline has worn off, he's feeling everything.

Resting his chin on his pillow, he starts moving and swings his legs around to the side of the bed. He knows Dean keeps a bottle of something around here. Gin, maybe. Or perhaps brandy. Walking on his toes as to not wake his brother, he reaches under Dean's bed and pulls out the glass by its neck.

He's just barely back to his own sheets when a tired voice asks him, "Little early for that, don't you think?"

Sam isn't surprised. He sighs, finishes his journey, and collapses back onto the mattress with the bottle still in hand. He sees Dean shake his head, pull himself up and walk over. The older brother holds his hand out expectantly.

Sam curls his lip, then reluctantly holds the drink out. Dean snatches it and tosses it onto his bed. "That's my thing," he jokes dryly. "Gotta start hiding my booze better." He sits down beside Sam, probably not knowing what to say, and that's understandable—Sam doesn't either.

"I just keep seeing him," he finally whispers. "I...I can't _stop_ seeing him."

"Yeah, well getting yourself wasted underage won't do any good," Dean says lightheartedly. "Imagine what Dad would do to you."

Sam's not able to fake the smile enough to laugh. Dean seems upset as his fruitless attempt at humor fails—exhaling and then wrapping an arm around Sam's shoulder. Sam tenses under the touch, but eventually leans into it.

"You're good, Sammy," Dean tells him tenderly, and god, he just really wants to believe that so much right now. "Remember what we did when Tyler passed?"

Sam perks up at the mention, the unexpected words piquing his curiosity. He hasn't really tried to think about his missed mother figure in a long time, but now he remembers the dramatic feelings that accompanied her loss.

He licks his chapped lips. "Yeah…" he replies. "We...uh, we drove around in the Impala. You took me to Lake Havasu so we could get away from Dad for a bit. Set us up on the lakeside so we could sleep there for the night."

"Mhm," Dean agrees, also looking intent on the memory. "We could do that again, you know. Just ditch all this—maybe I'll take you to the Grand Canyon this time. Even let you have a few drinks with me."

Sam won't lie, the offer sounds ridiculously enticing. He wants nothing more than to just scream his approval and throw his few belongings instantly into the car. He wants nothing more than to just sit shotgun to his brother for hours. He wants nothing more than to just be _normal_, even if it's only for a little bit, tasting a saccharine sample of it. He wants nothing more than to just snatch the college brochures he hides under his bed and dial the various numbers until they're left vexed with the amount of times he's pleaded them to take him.

And it's not Dean he wants to get away from. No, not at all. It's this life. Because right now, with Noah's death weighing on his shoulders, he doesn't know how much he even wants to climb out of bed at this moment.

"I...I can't, Dean," he answers, though, because he has a job to do. He owes it to Noah to at least get this thing taken care of. "I can't just leave this case unsolved."

"Dad can handle it."

"You sure about that?"

Dean knits his brows. "All right, maybe not. But c'mon, Sam, you've gotta think about running away sometimes, don't you?"

Sam's surprised at this. Sure, he's thought of running away countless times. But for Dean to want to leave, too? It's never been an idea he's entertained for long because it seemed so out of the question.

"Do you?" he asks in place of an answer.

"Sure," Dean says. "I dream about it sometimes. Just takin' you away from Dad and this life, finding you a stable place to live. It's not impossible, y'know, but I kind of lost hope once I saw—" he leans down under Sam's own bed and the younger brother's stomach drops, "—these."

How did Dean know everything about him? Fucking siblings. He wants to say they're so intrusive, but then again, he did just try and steal Dean's alcohol so that'd make him a bit hypocritical.

The Penn State and Stanford handouts glare at them. They both really needed to find a better hiding spot for their private stuff than under their beds.

"I wasn't trying to—"

"No, Sam, I get it. I really do. I know you haven't ever liked this life. And if you're wanting to go out and expand it on something different? I'll back you up every step of the way. Even if it means you ditching me."

"It's still not anything I've given serious thought on." That's a lie. "I just…"

"Dream about it," Dean supplies. "You're smart enough to go. You'd get in."

"That's what I'm scared of," Sam admits sadly. "I can't leave you and Dad."

And Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker, Dean looks so torn and upset but like he's still trying to be strong for Sam's sake, and Sam just wants to sink into the mattress they're sitting on and never resurface. Running away from your problems is always so much easier than facing them head-on.

"You could come with," he ventures.

Dean scoffs. "Right. Then who'd be there to keep Dad from getting himself killed?"

Sam has no answer to this, because Dean is right. Sometimes he thinks the only thing keeping their Dad on the living side of things is them—which honestly is something that can be said for every one of the Winchesters. Without their family, what's the point?

For practically the entirety of _all_ their lives they've been driven by the horrific death of their mother—the mother Sam doesn't even remember. Revenge has always been the holy grail for the three of them. Want to go to that school play? You've got training. Homework to do? Too bad, we leave for our next hunt across the country tomorrow.

Sometimes Sam thinks all of this would've been much simpler if he'd just _died_ in the flames that burned all the possible chances Sam had at being free. At least then he wouldn't be such a "screw up of a hunter" as his father had once so eloquently put it.

That fight was something that left an imprint on Sam's mind forever. Last year—Cleveland, Ohio—during a vengeful spirit hunt. The unfortunate thing was, said hunt fell right during the time of his SATs. The moment his father had told him of the hunt's date, he knew instantly there were going to be issues, and he was most definitely correct.

"_Where did I go wrong with you, boy?"_

_Sam held the burn of tears behind closed eyes, substituting the look of defeat wanting to crawl from him with an expressionless sort of regard. "Maybe when you decided to put the job before your own sons," he suggested sourly. _

_John looked as though he was about to throttle Sam. "This _job," _he began frustratedly, starting the same old speech Sam had heard a thousand times over, "is our life. I would think you'd want in on this—to find the thing that killed _your mother. _Are you really that selfish?"_

Sure, maybe Sam is selfish. Maybe because he would take a bullet for both his brother and his father, would leap at the chance to be the one to be killed in his own nursery instead of beloved Mary, would give up his whole world if either of them pleaded for him to—he's selfish. Because he's only had his own interests in mind the whole seventeen years he's been alive.

Yeah right. Try again. There's only one selfish person in this family, and their name most certainly does not start with a D or an S. In fact, Dean is probably the most selfless of them all. Here he is, stowing his own desires away to do what has to be done and not expecting a single thing in return. Talk about being altruistic.

He settles on a simple hum in reply to the hanging question.

Dean leans back on the mattress, causing the springs to squeal in protest. "What're you planning on majoring in?" he asks.

A smile ghosts Sam's features. "I'm not entirely sure yet, but Stanford does have a pretty nice law program…"

"Geek," Dean mutters. "So many other badass jobs out there, and you choose a lawyer."

Sam laughs. Rolling up the ends of his sleeves, he too leans back onto the bed so both Dean and him are laying parallel. "It isn't the saving people part of hunting that makes me hate it. It's the fact we never had a say in it. We were thrown into this life head-first, and forced to adapt. I can't keep living in this adversity, Dean."

"I know."

"I'm leaning more toward a defense attorney," he says. "Still saving people, just…in a different kind of way."

The supernatural isn't the only thing out there threatening the world. Sometimes, through the warring battle of creature versus hunter, it gets difficult to see the rest of the dangers posed to them humans. Murderers, rapists, human trafficking—sometimes the worst kind of monster is the human race itself. There has to be people to defend against that, too.

It's almost comical how ironic it is. Sam's fought tooth and nail his entire life against this lifestyle in which they practically work 24/7 to save people. Now he wants an actual career in it.

Drawing himself back to the present conversation, he watches the emotions play across Dean's face. His brother tries his absolute best to be a closed book, but Sam thinks Dean doesn't really know how ineffective it is against his little brother. It's the Winchester's patented way of dealing with conflicting emotions—put on an impassive face and plod on obdurately through the hellfire.

Dean's always perfecting and shaping his feelings to embody them as a soldier's. It's nearly perfect, too. Keyword being _nearly_. There's the small fissures and cracks that remain, the ones Sam can just barely see through; to be quite honest, it's about time they sing a different tune. Concealing, hiding, running—that shtick is getting old.

"Just remember to lay the salt lines down," Dean humors. Joke it may be, but Sam knows it's a genuine order. And Dean doesn't give out orders very often. Sam doesn't obey orders very often either. But this one?

"I will."

* * *

Sam stands completely still as his father's eyes track the collection of words on his research paper. He hears Dean shuffle impatiently to his right.

Breathe in. Out.

_Okay_.

Sam's also pretty sure his father can't comprehend half the four-plus syllable words he included to make himself seem more educated. Good—maybe that'll earn him extra brownie points.

John used to care a very long time ago about his grades and his learning, but if Sam is going to be forthcoming about this, he must admit, he can't remember the last time his father even made a comment about his never-ending certificates reminding him he has a ceremony to go to on good ol' jolly Thursday for making the principal's honor list. That time came and went just like all the schools he's attended in his lifetime. Now, he would literally raise hell if his father even gave some single indication that he gave a flying fuck about his work. Because if _John Winchester_ ended up complimenting him on something that wasn't a hunt well done (for once)? Then the world was definitely going to shit.

"All right," John says, turning the last page and raising his eyes to his sons, recapturing Sam's focus.

Sam and Dean look at each other from their peripherals. Sam knows they're both thinking the same thing.

"All right?" Sam prompts. "What'd'ya mean _all right_?"

His father curls a lip into the faintest of smiles and laughs briefly. When was the last time John had laughed?

"I mean, this is good. Really...actually good."

Sam wants nothing more than to beam and display his pleasure at the compliment, but he restrains himself and instead nods. "Thanks, sir."

"We can go out looking for the...whatever you call it...Jiuweihu? We can go look for it later tonight."

And...score. Sure, it might be his first victory in, well, _ever_, but that just makes it all the more special. He can feel Dean relax next to him as well.

Honestly, with today being the infamous November 2nd, he's befuddled at the lack of alcohol and spitting arguments that are usually present annually on this day. Not that he's questioning his father's change of heart—at this point he's just assuming they're all distracted with the current circumstances.

"Do you know how to kill it?" John questions, the inquiry seemingly directed at Sam more than Dean.

Sam tips his chin up. "Yes, sir. A few resources were contradicting, but I found most state a blade forged of pure nickel should do the trick. It, obviously, has nine tails. One of those is considered the _Prâx, _which basically acts as the storage bank of its magic, and driving the knife through its vein should incapacitate it."

Dean smirks. Sam can practically read it perfectly: _Ha. We were right, and you were wrong, and your son just did a fuck-ton of research that you could never measure up to even if you tried. _

Well, maybe not that egotistical...that's just Sam's pride leaking into his thoughts.

"I have one of those blades in one of my storage vaults in South Carolina. It's probably a good eight hour drive round-trip," John says, then sighs. "I'd send you boys off to do it yourselves, but I don't think that'd be efficient. You work better as a team, and I'd rather you boys stay here and just sit tight than get stuck in the Impala."

A thought snakes into Sam's mind, but he squashes it immediately. He'll address it with Dean later.

"I mean it, though," John continues. His tone drops an octave, which is a bright red flag for _Don't Poke the Bear and Listen to What Needs to be Said. _"You do _not_, under any circumstances, go chasing after this thing. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," the brothers respond with unanimity. Sam may be dumb at times—actually, quite a lot of times now that he thinks about it—but he isn't _stupid_.

If only his father acknowledged that.

"When are you leaving?" Dean asks. Sam, too, awaits an answer.

Their dad glances back and forth between the two of them, before he picks up his jacket and wraps it around his shoulders—that answers that.

"Now. I owe it to that kid."

Sam blinks, a sudden warm feeling reaching tendrils into his heart. Did—no, he can't be hearing this right. His dad definitely did _not _just say that. But...he did. Sam needs to have words with Ihtiras about doing this more often; his father has been more acquiescent this past 24 hours than he has been throughout the entire past year.

Is this what having a real father is like? Not that Dean isn't one already, but sometimes Dean is only just one person and he needs a constant in his life that isn't his older sibling.

"Noah," Sam says softly.

John looks at him with doleful eyes. "Yeah. Noah."

With that Sam steps aside as he watches his dad grab the duffle from the night before and unload a few choice weapons from it. A supply run fortunately does not require the use of firearms. Most of the time.

Dean still stands beside him, so when John approaches, luggage draped over his shoulder with his truck's keys in hand, they part and stand on opposing sides of the foyer.

John has just barely opened his mouth when Sam interrupts with, "We know, Dad. Dean'll keep the salt lines in check. I'll make sure the sigils are in place."

To Sam's startlement, Dean also chimes in with a few choice words of his own. "And Dad? Don't make any pit-stops along the way. We know what day it is. We also don't need to lose you to some drunken endeavor you decide to go on while you're gone. The blade and back. Okay?"

John stares at his oldest for a few seconds, then chuckles. "You boys'll be fine men when you're older. I'll be back in eight hours."

"Make it seven," Sam adds.

"Seven it is."

With that his father raises a hand of farewell and makes his way out the door, the screen door clicking against the frame. Dean turns to him in amusement.

"I like that version of Dad," he says with a tinge of longing.

"Me too," Sam replies wistfully. Whether it'll last or not is something he doesn't want to consider right now. "Now c'mon. I need to talk to you about something, and I have a few sigils I want to try to prevent the Jiuweihu from getting to our—"

The word that was supposed to come out of his mouth was _cabin,_ that soon followed by _subsequently our emotions, _but they never escape from the confinement of his mouth. The world suddenly turns into a blur and there's the sound of shattering glass, and he feels shards of the serrated metal dig into his arms and back.

Sam should really play the lottery for the kind of luck he brings about him.

Hunter instincts kicking into overdrive, Sam whirls around to face the source of the destruction. The window is completely destroyed, the only indication that there was such a thing previously being the jagged pieces protruding from the rims of the sill. He can feel the sting of the cuts, but opts to ignore them, instead shifting his attention to Dean.

His brother seems to have the same idea. "Sam?" Dean asks, then straightens and backs a pace toward the weapons table. Sam follows him, keeping his movements slow, unreadable, and purposeful, extending his fingers toward a particularly shiny pistol.

God, he hopes it's loaded.

It's silent in the cabin as the brothers assess their situation. "Call Dad," Dean whispers to him, nudging at the pocket Sam's phone is in. "Get him back here now."

Sam complies, but doesn't get very far. With a yelp, he's soon flying across the room in a tangle of limbs, and hits the wall like that of a dart thrown toward a bullseye. Bullseye it is indeed; he doesn't even quite hit the wall—he more slams into the bookshelf, which then decides to take the momentum from his flight and collapse right on top of him when he plunges to the ground.

The brunt of the impact lands on his shoulders. He bites back a scream of pain as the pressure bites into his skin, the spines of various books digging into his lower back. He doesn't see what happens to Dean, but he calls his brother's name once and gets no response, which will not fucking do.

Sam raises his head to look at the scene in front of him. From the limited point of view he's provided, he can see a few different things. A few things that make him question his sanity, but...things.

The first is a set of four obsidian-colored paws on the hardwood. He should really, _really _play the lottery. If the Jiuweihu doesn't finish him off first, that is.

Next, he sees Dean sprawled on the floor, unmoving, and that spurs him into motion. He drags his hands free from where they were crushed beneath his chest and searches the immediate area for his phone or, even better, his gun.

Okay...maybe not the lottery. A simple scratch-off might give him better luck.

He tries to use his strength to push off the remainder of the weight pinning him down, but is soon interrupted by, again, that weird-ass mystical-voice-in-the-air thing that is fucking creepy.

_You children have delved into things beyond your understanding._

While the daemon's voice was more smooth and archaic, this voice is scratchy and most definitely not humble. Sam chews on the inside of his cheek, and then tries again at lifting the bookshelf from atop him with little success. On his final try, he lets out a growl of frustration, not letting his eyes leave Dean's inanimate form.

_Humans are such pitiful scum. Why Majkel respects you I will never understand._

Suddenly the mass on his back is no more and he can freely move. The far end of Sam's mind acknowledges the smash of the bookshelf falling beside him, but he doesn't worry about that, nor what released him; he's more concerned about the fact that Dean hasn't fucking moved since he first saw him on the ground.

He tries to pull himself up with a speed in which he thinks might be quickly, but honestly, pain is flaring throughout his entire back and he can only manage small movements that won't end up driving a knife through his skin. Later—if there even is a later—his back is going to be a mottled mess of purple and yellow canvas. He can just see it now: Sam Winchester's own abstract painting of violet hues starting at an affordable price of a dollar-ninety-nine!

Just as he's barely got himself to his knees, something lifts him up by the back of his tee, and again he's cruising through the open air of the cabin. He lands harshly about three feet away from Dean, who still won't fucking move.

_So weak. And you deem yourselves hunters? You're no more than measly prey—meat on bones for us to feast upon. _

Before he's able to roll himself to a more favorable position in this fight that is actually more just him being thrown around like a ragdoll, all four of the Jiuweihu's paws land next to him, two on each side, keeping him pinned. A snout is pressed close to his ear, and the creature's hot breath brushes against his exposed neck. He can practically feel its fangs sinking into his veins already.

Of all the ways he thought he would die, he never thought it would be at the hands—paws?—of a freaking Jiuweihu. Something he didn't even put in the column of _Real Things That Most People Would Flip Out Over_ until twelve hours ago.

_I'll enjoy picking apart your bloody intestines. _

Sam waits for the inevitable, sucking in a deep breath, his life literally flashing before his eyes. He always had considered that a simple metaphor that people used to use to describe the atrocity of death, but now, watching himself grow up with Dean for the second time, he realizes it's less of a descriptive phrase and more of a reality.

_And I'll revel in watching the life drain from your eyes, _comes a completely new voice.

Sam twists his neck around just in time to see a rush of white leap at him—_no,_ not at him, at the _Jiuweihu._ He feels the nine-tailed beast depart from his back and takes this opportunity to stand up (his wounds howl at him to stop moving, but he ignores them) and latch onto Dean's cotton flannel. With all the strength he can muster, he tugs—and goddamnit Dean needs to seriously stop eating so much pie—his sibling from the crossfire and toward the table holding all their guns.

He doesn't think he'll need to grab the double-barrel, though.

In front of him, he watches with a strange fascination as Ihtiras' wolf battles the Jiuweihu's fiend. It's a fight of black and white, both animals releasing snarls of anger and whines of pain as they clash for superiority.

The skirmish lasts no more than two minutes. Blood from both parties is spilled onto the floor. Eventually, the wolf manages to throw the Jiuweihu onto its back, trapping it much like the fox had previously done to Sam himself. The Jiuweihu must realize its predicament, as it's soon serpentining its large frame out of the paws of the daemon and making a break toward the newly-constructed window entrance.

Sam locks eyes with Ihtiras for the briefest of moments. The daemon's icy eyes seem to peer into his own, and he nods his head in the slightest of thanks. Pulling Dean close to him, they lay still on the ground, and Sam looks on as the daemon jumps out the window in pursuit of the Jiuweihu.

Dean stirs about thirty seconds later, jumping to alertness instantly. "What…?"

"We are _so_ not getting our deposit back," Sam says, wincing in pain.


	8. Chapter 8

"Do you need some more ice?" Sam nervously asks, watching Dean hold the bag to his head. Every wince his brother makes causes Sam himself to visibly flinch. He sits on the edge of his bed, ready to jump to aid Dean if he requires assistance, rubbing his own arms anxiously. Dean's in this position because of him.

"I'm good, Sam," comes the response, and although it might sound normal to normal people, Sam can recognize how strained it is. Concussions are nasty bitches that nobody voluntarily wants to deal with.

Sam slowly rises to his feet, careful not to show any signs of pain. "I-I could get you some painkillers or something. What do you need?"

Dean groans. "What I _need_, is to find the bastard who did this to me. After, of course, you show me what the hell happened to you. I was a little out of it, you know; filling in some of the blanks might help."

"What do you—"

"Look, Sam, there's no way you could've gotten out of that unscathed. I surely didn't. Now the faster you show me what's wrong with you, the quicker we can go out and get this creature," Dean reasons. "I mean it."

Whether this is just logic, or Dean's Sammy Radar™, Sam isn't sure; but, whatever it is, it's annoying. He doesn't need to be fussed over now any more than he did back when Trey had knifed him. As he thinks about it, he realises that the throbbing he's been ignoring is partially from that wound and now that he's acknowledged it, it seems more determined than ever to be painful; the recent scuffle with two all-powerful beings did not help in the slightest. Sam pushes the stinging away—he needs to be strong enough to go after this thing.

Dean's obviously not in the fittest of forms to go hunting right now. Anyway, there's no way Sam would even let him. His own phone is broken, Dean's is nowhere to be found, and they have no way to contact their absentee father. The only way to get help would be to get one of them to town and use a payphone. It's not like they can just call the cops and have this be done with.

Studying his brother, Sam shakes his head. "No. _We're _not going out to get anybody. _I'm_ going to go to the Impala, get to town, and call Dad."

"Sam…"

He takes a step forward. "Right now, all you need to do is put up those protection sigils I found, rest, and maybe not end up giving yourself permanent brain damage until I get back." Another step. "You were out for quite a long while, Dean. Enough for me to get thrown across the fucking room, watch Ihtiras and the Jiuweihu duke it out for at least two minutes, and then leave. Who knows what complications your concussion can have?"

"Thrown across the room," Dean echoes, completely ignoring the important stuff. "So that's why you're breathing so heavy?"

Sam freezes. Then, the pain comes back with a vengeance, and he forces himself to sit back on the mattress. He hadn't even realized it was this bad.

"Show me it," Dean says forcefully. Sam doesn't make a move. "_Now."_

Finally, Sam raises his hands to his shirt and lifts it over his head. The cotton dragging against the damaged skin burns like fire, and he has to bite a lip, intent on trying not to reveal how bad it is. Upon Dean's hand motions, he turns around.

He hears the sharp intake of breath Dean makes when he sees it. Probably already pretty visible, then.

"Jesus, Sam…" he says, and Sam turns around just in time to see him try and get to his feet. He doesn't make it far, however, because he then stumbles and has to sit back down. "What happened?"

Sam swallows. "The, uh…" He tosses a thumb over his shoulder toward the area of the common room. "The bookshelf fell on me."

Dean's eyebrows jump. "That big dusty one? Seriously? You're lucky to not be in worse condition!"

Sam scoffs. "Tell me about it." He looks at the bedroom door. "I'm going to go get the painkillers from the kit in the Impala."

Dean shakes his head. "Not alone you're not. That thing can still be around."

"I doubt it," Sam says. "The daemon chased it away. I think it'd be wary to try and come back here again."

"Doesn't matter. We stick together. How about we just both get in the car and get away from here? Take shelter in the town where there's more people. It can't want to get its hands that dirty."

Sam rolls his eyes. "You say that like it cares about the people it kills. It's angry—nothing is going to stop it from getting what it wants. Which, right now, I'm pretty sure is its predators for dinner. Us."

Sam's gradually come to realize over the time of his hunting life that while there are the occasional tones of color that light the way like Ihtiras, a lot of the time it's also just a strict division of white and black sliced right down the middle. Not all creatures are as peaceful as they make themselves out to be.

Dean looks away. "Maybe. But are we sure we're the predators?"

Sam doesn't respond. Lying to his brother is not a practice he executes often. Instead, he lets the moment of silent slip by, then gets to his feet carefully. "C'mon. If we're gonna make it to the car you're gonna need some help."

"How in the hell are you gonna pull that off? I'm fine. Just let me—" Dean stops short the moment he tries to stand up.

"Dumbass," Sam mutters and then extends a hand. "How many times are you going to try that before you realize you're concussed?"

"Shuddup."

Dean takes Sam's elbow to stand, and although Sam tries to wrap his brother's arm around his back for more support, Dean shakes his head. "Your back is a war zone. I can walk. Just give me your arm."

So, they work out an awkward deal where Dean grips Sam's arm—very tightly, he might add—and together make their way into the common room. It's still the mess it was when they left it, and they have to maneuver their way around shattered glass and pages of books to get to the front door. As a precaution, Sam grabs a blade and its holster from the floor where the weapons table had been overturned, and while Dean leans on the wall close by, tugs hard on the door's handle to get it open.

Quite literally he jumps in shock, fear jerking through him for the briefest of moments. Dean's instantly at his side again, and Sam slows his breathing quickly. Before them sits the wolf of Ihtiras on the fore of the pathway, casually licking one of his paws.

_He's gone,_ come the simple words. _I lost his trail. _The wolf stands to all fours, stepping a pace closer to Sam and Dean. Sam watches attentively.

_Are you okay, young ones? _Ihtiras asks, and Sam thinks it might be true concern in his words.

"Just fine," Dean snaps. "I've got a concussion, Sammy's got more scrapes than shredded paper—but nah, we're _dandy._"

"Dean—"

"Where the fuck were you when that thing almost killed my brother and me?"

Sam deflates, defeated. No matter how much Dean tries to assure him that he's open to the idea of working with a supernatural being, Sam knows there's always going to be that wedge driven between them. Especially when he himself is injured.

Ihtiras stares at Dean, then turns around. _You are so not worth it._

Sam puts a hand on Dean's chest, and says, "You might be right. But you're still helping us, and we're indebted to you for that." He glares at his brother, and when that ushers no response, stomps on his foot. "Right?"

Dean makes a face, but then mutters, "Right."

Ihtiras still is not facing them. _Sounds convincing. But I shall stow my disputes with you, Winchester, in favor of finding the Jiuweihu. I still haven't forgotten the bullet you kindly put in my leg._

If Sam hadn't been forcefully gripping Dean's arm, then he's sure the man would've made some comment about how there's not even a bullet hole; which, there isn't, but it's the actions that displayed the mistrust and betrayal that matter. It's already a shaky partnership at best between the hunters and the creature, and they don't need to make things worse than they already are.

"Thank you," Sam says. "Now Dean is hurt. We need—"

"So are you," Dean points out.

Sam closes his eyes in exasperation. "Yes," he grunts, just to please his brother. "So am I." Opening his lids, he continues, "And like I was saying, we need to get to town and wait for our father. We can't keep hunting this thing when we're already worn down."

_That might be a problem_, the daemon says cautiously.

"Why?" Dean asks.

The wolf steps aside, giving them a clear view of the Impala.

"Shit," Sam curses as he catches sight of the tires. They look as though they've been slashed by some animal's claws, yet not a wolf's—definitely the work of the Jiuweihu. It doesn't want them leaving and coming back stronger. It's smart, and it's keeping them pinned and confined to its hunting grounds.

Sam and Dean are far out of their comfort zones. They're used to being the dominators; caffeinated-filled nights of research typically lend them the upper hand in their battles, but here, they are waltzing right into the unknown. They aren't attacking on their own turf, and they still don't even have anything to fully defend themselves with.

Sam takes one more glance at the car and then turns to look at his brother. "You all right, Dean?"

Dean doesn't answer, eyes still fixated on the Impala's wheels. "That bitch," he growls with a frightening ferocity. "That son of a _bitch_ screwed my fucking car up!" He takes a step toward Ihtiras. "Where can we find this thing?"

"Whoah," Sam says, shaking his head. "Steady there, Crockett. We don't even have the blade, and I thought we just decided we should do some R&R and maybe, y'know, not go after this thing blindly. It's tires, Dean. We can get them fixed when this is over with. Besides, Dad told us to stay put."

_No,_ Ihtiras says loftily. _Maybe what your sibling said is exactly what we need to do._

"What?"

_Go after the Jiuweihu and get it before it gets us!_ The wolf does a little prance, holding its head high with burgeoning excitement. _A kind man once told me back in the day, "The art of war teaches us to rely not on the likelihood of the enemy's not coming, but on our own readiness to receive him; not on the chance of his not attacking, but rather on the fact that we have made our position unassailable."_

"And who told you that?" Dean jokes. "Confucius?"

"Actually it was Sun Tzu," Sam supplies, then realizes his mistake—Dean's looking at him with daggers and he can practically feel them digging into his skin. Maybe he does have way too much knowledge stored in his brain. Dean obviously thinks so.

_Yeah!_

"You knew him?" Sam asks, impressed, ignoring Dean.

_I most certainly did. He taught me many things. _

"Enough with the geek-out session," Dean moans. "I agree with you, Ihtiras, but Sam's right; how do we go after this thing if we don't have the blade?"

Good question. Sam has an answer: "We can't." Is Dean seriously going to be this idiotic over a car? Amatuer hunting mistake—letting your emotions get the best of you. Sometimes you wouldn't even believe they'd been raised in the world of this life.

"Sure, we might be able to pin it down, but there's no way," Sam continues, "_no way_ we could manage to keep it like that. Anyway, we need to actually be here when Dad gets back. If we're five miles into the forest, how the fuck is he going to find us? Our phones are gone."

Dean sighs in disappointment. "True."

Sam shifts his attention to Ihtiras. "We're going to hole up in the house and set up some sigils. I trust you'll be fine out here yourself?"

_I think I'll manage, young one,_ Ihtiras says lightly. _I shall be residing in this area in case it tries to come back and your warding fails._

"That settles it." Sam loops his arm under Dean's shoulder and keeps it there even as the elder hunter tries to push it away arduously.

_Stay safe,_ Ihtiras says, bidding farewell.

"You too," Sam replies and then starts walking. He hears the wolf pad away into the trees and smiles to himself.

They've barely made it about five steps when he hears it. It's impossible to miss: a loud scream slicing through the air, bouncing off the trees, reverberating around them. Sam's heart stops. Barely breathing, he pauses, and the terrifying sound comes again.

That scream was feminine. It also sounded a lot like—

Fear grips him and he becomes sweaty instantly. Dean probably sees what he's about to do, but is too late to stop him as Sam takes off at a full sprint, completely oblivious to his prior injuries. He runs as fast as he humanly can down the gravel driveway and into the forest, leaping over disturbed dirt and protruding sticks, blocking out the sound of Dean's desperate yelling to get him to stop.

Thorns and trees lash at his side, reopening the wounds from the shattered glass of thirty minutes ago on his arms. While the back of his mind acknowledges this, he can't bring himself to care and the pain becomes nothing but a dull throb compared to the heartache in his chest.

The brush becomes thicker the further he travels inward, yet he doesn't slow his pace. He's probably consumed a few bugs and has multiple lacerations on his face, but if he could just _get there in time…_

He comes to a small break in the trees where bushes and ferns enswathe the floor, but the trees are lesser and he can view his surroundings more clearly. Sam looks around hyper cautiously—the sound came from somewhere around here, did it not? But there's not even a sign of a struggle.

"Casey!" he calls to the trees. It's completely silent in response.

Something is wrong. Very, very wrong with this situation.

"Casey?" Sam says again, this time more of a soft question. Still nothing. _Shit._ He tries to think back to the books he briefly read on the Jiuweihu when doing his research paper. Did anything mention the creature being able to mimic voices like a wendigo? He doesn't think so, but _shit, shit, shit_ he is in such a terrible position and he abandoned Dean all the way back at the cabin.

It comes at him from behind and gives him little time to react. The Jiuweihu lands on his back forcing him forward onto his stomach, and the impact knocks the wind out of him as the hard soil and pointed sticks plunge themselves into his skin. One in particular seems to lodge itself quite deeply into his abdomen, and he snaps his teeth together tightly to avoid screaming.

Stupid Sam. Stupid Jiuweihu. This is why having personal connections during a hunt is a horrible thing—he should've learned this lesson when Noah was killed. Sam has done a hell of a lot of shit in his life, but none as fucked up as this. The creature they were hunting practically set the cheese on the trap, and Sam leaped right onto it.

He wonders if Dean'll be able to find his body.

The jaws come next, clamping onto his left shoulder and closing _hard_. The teeth are sharp as hell, and goddamnit he really didn't want to give the Jiuweihu the satisfaction of hearing his cries, but it's a battle he'll have to forfeit.

More and more they close, and then the canines stop going _in_, and start dragging _out. _This is more painful than the former—it feels as though a thousand knives are digging into the flesh and bone of his body, slowly carving the skin off of his tendons and ligaments. Actually, as a matter of fact, that's probably pretty accurate if you replace the knives with a mouth. His vision is teetering. And from what knowledge he has of grass, he's pretty sure it's not supposed to be white.

After a moment, he's pretty sure the horrid jaws are gone, because they then dig back in like he's some sort of chew toy to be gnawed on. The pain is probably putting him into shock, which explains why the white grass is spinning like some sort of grass-constructed twister.

Fatigue sweeps over him. Eventually Sam just closes his eyes in hopes it'll ease the pain, but who is he kidding? Himself, clearly.

The teeth dig back in for a third time. _Damn it all to hell_. He goes limp, letting the tension rush out of his body, and relaxes. Just when he's about to decide to let nature take its course and the food chain continue, a thought comes to him—and he might laugh if he weren't screaming—because hardy har _har_, if the Jiuweihu doesn't finish him first, Dean most certainly will for how stupid he was.

_Dean._ Fuck. He can't leave his brother behind. The idiot would probably get himself killed trying for revenge.

Drawing some newfound strength from somewhere in the depths of Sam's muscles, he brings his arm down to his waist and removes his blade from its sheath. Gritting his teeth together, he sends some half-assed prayer to the sky, then twists his body around, feeling the jaws of the Jiuweihu jerk with his movement. He brandishes the knife in front of him, serrated edge out, and looks into the Jiuweihu's pitch black eyes.

"Fuck you."

With that he lodges the blade into its stomach. The animal shrieks in pain, yanking its mouth out of Sam with no consideration for how painful it is. He collapses completely against the ground and releases a choked-off cry. His vision is still blurred, the edges of what he can see almost like that of a vignette effect.

Sam watches as the Jiuweihu scampers off as fast as it can while injured, looks up at the sky, and swallows. He can feel bile rising in the back of his throat; if he could avoid puking, that would be a miracle_._ The pain pulses in his shoulder. It spreads fire all the way down to his toes and up to his neck, phantom pains of the wrenching and tearing of his muscles shooting through his nerves.

He briefly wonders where Dean is. Taking in his surroundings, he logically points out to himself that he's in an open field and that provides higher chances of being found, but it's a big forest. The ferns are tall, stretching high above him from where he lay flat—Dean might not be able to find him unless he's practically _stepping_ on Sam's body.

Oh, that's actually a terrifying thought.

Sucking in a breath and holding it, Sam uses his elbows to push himself to a sitting position. His wounds scream in agony at him and he gasps in misery, but adrenaline carries him through. Once he gets himself at least ninety-degrees he takes a moment to rest, and deliberately chooses not to look at his injury—he doesn't think he even wants to see it at this point. It feels awful, so it probably looks awful, too.

He quickly goes through a list of pros and cons of trying to stand up. Well, he might collapse back to the ground and lose any vantage point he has of sitting. He could also aggravate something in the bite on his shoulder, or try and walk back toward the direction he came from and end up even more lost.

On the other hand, he _might_ be able to make it back to the cabin, but that's wishful thinking with how fast his sight is dimming. He could find something to try and stem the bleeding with, but at this point he might be better off trying to remove his shirt.

His shirt. Right. Basic first aid rules—worry about saving your life first and getting stabilized, then try to find help.  
Sam looks around. The Jiuweihu took his knife with it when it ran away. He's sitting on a few ferns, and the stems of them seem pretty flimsy. He finds a few sticks on the ground, too, though. It's worth a shot.

He snatches one with his right hand—thank god it's his non-dominant side that's done for—and tugs his shirt taut. Holding the fabric tight between his legs, he takes the stick and presses it down on the shirt, pushing his arm muscles to their limit.

He sees the fabric tear and laughs in relief. From there, he works the stick through his shirt, tugging the seams apart from each other and creating a decently large hole. He tears it free, folds it in half, and—still without looking at the bite—holds it to his shoulder.

Now...shit. What does he do? His mind is becoming foggy and he has no lights to shine a path through it. He tries to think back to the first aid lessons his dad practically drilled into his mind when he was a child. Tournequites...no that isn't possible for a shoulder injury. That makes things worse anyway. Pressure points? It's too high on his body for that. He checks his makeshift gauze. Completely soaked through with his blood. Shit.

He picks his stick back up and reworks his shirt again, twisting the back of his clothing around so it's in the front and he can get more material. He would take the whole thing off, if he thought it wouldn't hurt like a son of a bitch having to pull it over his shoulder.

Sam takes a deep breath. He's fine, isn't he? Dean'll find him. Hopefully before the Jiuweihu recovers and manages to find its way back to Sam to finish off its meal.

The thought sends a jolt of worry through him. Oh hell no. Sam's not becoming that thing's chew toy again. He'd much rather bleed out to death now and not feel himself getting torn to shreds all over again. That...wasn't a very fun experience, and he'd much rather not have a second round, thank you very much.

He's slightly panicking. Maybe he should lie down. Sam can't entirely remember, but he thinks maybe one of the books on field medics mentioned that it helps stem the blood flow? As long as he's calmer, his heart will beat slower and he won't leak as fast.

But then what if Dean doesn't see him?

Sam figures he should probably scream for help.

But what if the Jiuweihu hears and comes back?

Then he'd really be screwed.

The knife will do jack shit in the grand scheme of things. The creature won't be subdued for long, and probably only needs an hour to nurse itself back to full health. To take care of this thing he needs a nickel blade, and his father hasn't even been gone more than sixty minutes. The odds are really looking imbalanced.

He chooses to stay sitting, but vows to make himself a little more clear-headed. Whether it's the right decision or not he's unsure, but he has to make a choice here, and he's quite literally running out of options.

Sam doesn't know how long he stays there. Frozen and unmoving, holding the shirt to his shoulder. He rips off a few more layers and applies them, but it doesn't do much with how thin the material is and how big the injury spans. He thinks about college. A normal life. What he could have if he quits hunting and survives this.

He sure as hell won't find himself bleeding out in a forest.

A little while later, Sam hears the sounds of the forest return. He's never been more excited to hear a cricket in his life. At least now he has a warning sign if the Jiuweihu decides to make an appearance again. It must've gone back to wherever it's sheltering, which appears to be out of range of this part of the forest.

More time passes and Sam gets...bored? Hm. He must seriously be in shock; maybe that's why he's starting to get lightheaded, too. He's run out of shirt to cut off, however it seems like the bleeding might slowly be stopping. Which he thinks is positive. He's not too sure of anything anymore, including the fact that Dean is going to be his knight in shining armor and save him. But then again, Sam can't blame his brother. The only reason he's in this situation is because of his own stupidity and connection to Casey.

Just when he's about hit 4,110 in his progress of counting numbers to keep his focus and pass the time, he hears some rusting in the trees behind him. The forest silences again, and Sam's stomach drops. Oh hell no. Fuck that.

He grabs a stick and abandons his shirt to feel some sort of security, even if he's incapable of defending himself. The rustling is slowly increasing in volume, and he prepares for the worst, saying one last apology to his brother. The creature is closing in, probably ten meters away...five…three...

"Oh," is all Sam says. The daemon looks down at him. "Hi." He picks up his bandage and puts it back on his shoulder. "Where, uh—erm, where's Dean?"

Ihtiras stares at him. Just...stares.

_You idiot,_ he snarls finally, then turns away. _Wait here._

Once the wolf leaves, Sam begins laughing—in a way it's maniacal, almost _hysterical_, that hey! He might actually survive this!

No more than three minutes go by when he hears more ruckus from where the daemon left. He awaits the arrival, and is thoroughly surprised when Ihtiras reappears, with...Dean on his back? Holy shit. His brother is riding a fucking wolf. He needs a camera. Like _now._

Once Dean's eyes find his own, Sam can see the utter terror in them. Maybe now's not the best time for humor, but he can't help it. "N-Nice ride, dude." He chuckles breathlessly. "You trade the 'pala for it?"

His brother dismounts hilariously, and hangs onto Ihtiras' back for support. "Fucking hell_._ Remind me to _never _do that again." He looks at Sam's wound, then shakes his head."Oh you stupid son of a bitch."

Dean walks over to him and leans down, taking over the job of holding pressure. The daemon also creeps closer. Sam doesn't say anything as Dean does his triage, inspecting the bite marks. He himself hasn't even looked at it yet—doesn't want to. He's already dealing with some annoying nausea, and most certainly does not want to give his body another reason to heave.

Wouldn't that suck.

Dean presses harder on his shoulder and Sam hisses. His brother casts him a sympathetic look, but doesn't relent with his strength, and Sam tries to focus on the grass. It's closer to its natural color, but everything is spinning; and, to be quite truthful, he's getting a bit lightheaded. His face comes alive with a strange tingling, almost painfully. Sweat trickles down his back and forehead, but Dean keeps his hand on the ground from moving it up to wipe the droplets away.

He looks at Ihtiras, who watches on silently. Then, he turns his attention to Dean and begins to say, "D-De'?"

"Yeah Sammy?"

"I think I'm gonna pass—"

Someone switches off the lights, draping Sam's vision with darkness, and he doesn't have much time to react before he's collapsing into a frightened Dean's arms. Everything goes quiet and he lets the surge of nothing take him away.

* * *

Sam opens one eye with weariness. _Fuck._

Releasing a pained groan as his shoulder very kindly reminds him that he's got deep gashes in his flesh, he opens the other eye and looks around. He's on his bed. Right. North Carolina. Not Florida, or Missouri, or any of the other 47 states he's been to.

Surprisingly, alertness comes to him quickly. His head is pounding, but his memories return rather fast and he moves a hand to rub his temples. Feels like he's had a bad hangover. Not that he'd ever tell Dean about how he knows what that feels like, but semantics.

"Look who's back." A small pill bottle lands on his chest and he startles. "Chill, dude. It's just painkillers. I got them from the Impala."

Speak of the devil.

He squints against the brightness leaking through the blinds. "Wha' happened?"

Dean leans over him. "Well, you were an idiot, for one," he begins. "What were you thinking, running off into the forest like that? What did you even see to cause you to bolt?"

"Wait, you didn't hear it?" Sam furrows his eyebrows in confusion. "The scream?"

"Uh, Sam, if there was a scream, I'm pretty sure I would have heard it. That's a pretty hard thing to miss."

Sam shifts his head on the pillow to look at his brother more directly. If Dean didn't hear what he did, then what the hell happened back there? No way it was nothing—it was _Casey_. There was something there, and Dean was obviously either too concussed or not paying enough attention to hear it also.

That would be the easier answer, of course. But, Dean is attuned to hear everything, so something is definitely not right about this whole thing.

"I, uhm," Sam says, trying to work his tongue around the dryness in his mouth. "I heard a scream. It sounded like Casey, my—"

"Your girlfriend," Dean finishes. Ah, so he did remember, then.

"Yeah. But when I got to where the sound had come from, either she was already gone, or…" Sam trails off.

"Or what?"

"Or she was never there and the Jiuweihu was trying to separate me from you and Ihtiras."

There's a moment where neither of them speak, the quietness weighing on them both. Sam can't recall when things on a hunt were ever this tightly wound up and tense. Usually they had their veteran father to lead the way and teach them, but now, they're on their own and have to figure out things themselves.

"Well isn't that a terrifying thought," Dean says wryly. "But why you? Why couldn't I hear it?"

Sam raises an akimbo arm in thought. "I'm not sure on the specifics of that. Like I said, maybe it just wanted to get me alone to attack. I am the weakest after all. How it didn't attract you too is beyond me, though."

Dean snorts. "For one, you are _not _the weakest. Secondly, if that's true, then we better call Dad. Things have gotten so out of hand."

Sam uses his arms to push himself to a sitting position, but then has to lay back down at the pain that accompanies the movement. His back, shoulder, and abdomen—presumably from the many sharp sticks that came hand in hand with his fall onto the ground—all alert him that's not such a good idea.

"Yeah…" Dean says. "I wouldn't do that. Thirty stitches total. Twenty-one for your bites near the collarbone, another nine for the lacerations on your stomach. Tried to use as many butterflies as possible, but some were too deep. A day or two of bed rest is definitely required. Ain't it funny that the knife Trey slashed at you was less worse than some _sticks_?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Oh, _so_ funny. I would laugh if I didn't think it would hurt so much." He opens the painkiller bottle and, without water, downs three of them.

"Tough crowd. Whatever."

Making his position more comfortable on the mattress, Sam again looks at Dean. "What do you mean call Dad? We don't know where your phone is. And, you never finished talking about what happened."

Dean stares, probably trying to figure out what Sam's talking about, then the realization dawns on him. Sam honestly thinks his brother is, albeit smart, unforgivingly slow at times.

"You almost died," he says, a small tremor racking his voice. "_That's _what happened."


	9. Chapter 9

Just before Dean starts retelling the story, Sam has to force himself up to go to the bathroom; and although he wouldn't admit it to anybody, he only got about halfway before he has to have his brother come and help him. It's a little embarrassing, sure, but if all Sam had to worry about in life was his dignity, then things would be so much easier to deal with.

While Sam is in the restroom, he manages to catch a glimpse of all of his injuries. He doesn't have a shirt on because he had practically torn most of his to pieces while trying to survive, and whatever little clothing there was left on his torso, Dean was forced to cut off. So, when he turns around to do his business and sees his reflection in the mirror to his left, he is mildly astonished to find no remnants of his original color on his back.

Instead, scattered around in dark yellow clumps are a numerous amount of bruises. Which shouldn't be as shocking as it is based on what he'd been through in the past forty-eight hours, but it's still much worse than he thought.

After finishing up, he asks Dean to help him face straight in the mirror—what he sees makes him want to double-over in disgust. His deathlike pallor is obtrusive, and so are the many bandages that cover him. His shoulder is encased in white tape and gauze; and Sam can now see why Dean had wanted him to wear that stupid sling he'd turned down not too long ago.

Across his abdomen and chest are many cuts and bruises, varying in size and depth. Trey's knife-inflicted wound looks trivial to the many other lesions. And to top it off, _everything _ached. If Sam could describe his pain in just a single word, it would be staggering. At least there's the hope that the painkillers will kick in eventually.

Finally Dean manages to aid him in hobbling back to his mattress, and sitting down carefully, he begins to wonder how he should lay. Now that he's awake, being on his back would probably be a lot more painful than it was when he was passed out.

Dean must've seen his dilemma, because he was then saying, "Lay on your left side."

Unfortunately, his bed is in the rightmost area of the room, therefore laying on his left would simply cause him to stare at the wall. But he needs to talk to Dean. Desperately. Sam starts to say something, but is cut off by his brother. "I'll get in bed with you."

Before Sam can turn down the offer, Dean is already moving toward the bed and Sam groans inwardly. What more pride does he have to lose?

Crawling down next to Dean, he positions himself as suggested and looks up at his brother, who is sitting with his back against the wall. Nothing is said as Dean drops his phone—his unbroken, totally-not-lost-anymore phone—between them.

"Holy shit," Sam says. "Where did you find it?"

Dean cracks his neck. Sam notices he looks exhausted, the creases on his forehead glaring. "Ihtiras brought it to me. He found it an hour ago when he was patrolling around our cabin. And don't worry, the warding sigils are up already. Let's just hope they work."

"They should," Sam replies confidently. "I cross-referenced them to three different sources." He pauses. "Have you called Dad yet?"

Dean shakes his head. "No, I was waiting for you to wake up."

"How much time has passed since he left?"

"Probably around four hours."

Which means another three to go. Maybe even four if the traffic doesn't want to be cooperative, which Sam really hopes won't be the case. He doesn't want to spend any more time exposed to the Jiuweihu with no defense than he has to; he's pretty sure his father didn't count on the creature attacking them right after he left.

"Well," Sam says, "I guess go ahead and call him. He needs to know what's going on."

Dean presses a few buttons and puts it on speaker phone. "All right. Here goes nothing."

The phone rings a few times and Sam starts to get nervous. His father should be picking up right now—there's no reason for him not to be. He should have retrieved the blade and been on his way back already, with his phone right next to him at all times. Their dad was the one who taught them having a form of communication was most important in the first place.

The call turns to voicemail and Sam stares at Dean. "Call him again."

"Sam—"

"Do it."

His brother sighs and redials. The results are the same disappointing ones as the first time around.

"What if something happened?" Sam queries uneasily. "What if—"

Dean interrupts him. "Sam, he's fine. He's Dad, remember? Besides, he might just be on some highway or backroad where there's no cell service."

That, of course, would be the simple solution, but when are their lives ever _simple_? Hell, the most simple the Winchesters have been was before Sam's mother was murdered. So forgive him if he's a little pessimistic about the lack of response from their father, who is supposed to be fetching the one thing that could save them right now.

"Fine," he relents. "But what the hell do you want to do in the meantime? Sit here and let this thing close in on us? It's gonna find a loophole in the warding eventually."

"That's not what I'm saying. I just think you're practically immobile and we need some place to hunker down that is foolproof. Right now we're on borrowed time—you barely made it out of those woods. The Jiuweihu isn't going to wait up much longer. It's going to come after us—_you_—again."

Dean poses a fair point, but right now he can't see a solution to sideswipe this issue. It's not like they have a vehicle they can leave town in anymore and, right now, the best shot they have is staying right where they are and waiting for Dad.

"We don't really have a choice at this point," Sam remarks. "Right now we need to trust Ihtiras to keep us safe. And dude, right before the Jiuweihu attacked us for the first time, I wanted to bring something up to you, but I never got the chance. Do you—-"

"Hold up," Dean interrupts, his tone dropping a full octave. It's his serious, no-nonsense voice, and Sam is instantly poised. "Do you smell that?"

Sam uses a moment to take a deep breath, inhaling the air around them. Oh hell, he smells that for sure. In the atmosphere is the faint scent of smoke, almost that of a flame in a fireplace, but unfortunately...they haven't got a fireplace in this cabin.

A light pawing on their door begins abruptly. Dean casts a glance over, then stands up. "I'd say that's our loophole," he says.

He opens the door and Sam can see Ihtiras past Dean's short frame. The wolf looks ashen, dirt covering its entire coat making it seem a dark grey.

_You must leave. Now!_

"The hell is going on?" Dean demands.

Sam already knows the answer. If the Jiuweihu can't get inside of their cabin to reach them, then instead of trying to remove the people out of the fortress, why not remove the fortress out from the people? It certainly is a smart tactic.

He doesn't waste any time on waiting for Dean to play catch-up with Ihtiras, and instead forces himself upright. The blood rushes to his head and he nearly topples over, but manages to cling to the bed rail and make his way to their duffles. Quickly, he tosses in what little items he can find—the ones necessary. Two old water bottles, half a pack of jerky, a bag of salted crackers, and the mostly-empty first aid kid.

Sam feels responsible for the lack of supplies they have for the healthwise-side of the emergency department.

Usually they keep a stash of things in case they have to pick up everything and run, but that would be in the kitchen, which appears to be inaccessible to them right now. Dean is still arguing with Ihtiras and trying to get past him, but the daemon stands as still as a statue, not letting him through.

Looking once more at the meager belongings in front of him, Sam leans under his bed and grabs two things: a college brochure, and a picture of their family—alive and together—from when he was an infant. No way he was going to let his dreams burn up like everything else in this goddamn family had.

Dean finally seems to get it through his thick skull that he can't get anywhere but this bedroom, so Sam shoulders the bag and opens the window. His brother looks distraught.

"Sam…" he says shallowly, eyes shuttered and troubled.

Sam nods his head in understanding. "I know. But we have to go." He releases the safety on his pistol and tips his head toward the window. He knows why Dean is hesitant to leave and the memories this must be bringing back. The smoke is getting thicker, oppressive, and if they're going to get out of here, they need to do it now.

But that means abandoning all of their items. There's stuff that's going to burn, and the fact it's November 2nd is completely heart-shattering. The coincidence.

Dean stares at him sadly, before sobering up and taking point. He's the first out the window, not looking back, and Sam and Ihtiras exchange glances.

_Will he be all right?_

"Eventually," Sam answers, then follows.

Ihtiras is the last one out, and as soon as Sam and Dean are a safe distance from the shelter, they risk a look back. Fire envelops the wood and roof, a deep orange glow against the backdrop of blue sky. The Jiuweihu doesn't seem to be around right now, and Sam decides to count his blessings while he can.

Small favors.

A part of him feels crushed, wrecked. He wasn't there to experience the first fire of his life that ripped everything away from him, but he's certainly here to witness the destruction of the rest of the things he's owned. How are they going to move on from this? They just lost _everything—_every little thing that Sam has collected, had possession of, and stored, just...gone. It's unfathomable. Clothes, fake IDs, schoolwork, weapons, pictures.

He's spent so much time trying to force normal upon himself, that maybe—just maybe—he needs to go out himself and reach for it. The feeling of loss is getting tiring and he wonders how the rest of his family can stand it.

The smell of burnt infrastructure and insulation returns him unwillingly to the present as the roof begins to surrender itself to the fire's pull. It collapses in on itself, landing and spraying embers in a wide diameter around it.

In spite of himself, he snorts. There's Dean's fucking loophole.

* * *

They watch the inferno for a little more before Sam decides to get a move on. Dean's squatting in an anguished position behind him, hands in his hair, as Sam approaches. Ihtiras also steps carefully towards them, probably unsure if he should intrude on the Winchester's moment, but Sam gives a nearly imperceptible nod to let him know he's fine. After all the things the daemon has done for them, there's no need to isolate him any further.

Dean has this look on his face. Sam knows this look very well: the you-should-leave-the-older-brother-well-enough-alone-face. But, unfortunately they don't have time for that, so Sam's going have to walk right through the obstructing wall for this.

"Dean...we have to leave." He looks at the smoke in the sky or, rather, the lack thereof. It's almost non-existent in the visibility department, but the terrible odor of it lingers everywhere. "I think the Jiuweihu has done something to mask the smoke. Fire rescue isn't going to chase an invisible fire."

_The young one is right. It doesn't want you being rescued. _

Dean doesn't answer, eyes still fixated on the burning remnants of his life.

"Dean…" Sam goes to make a move to touch his brother's shoulder, but Dean suddenly snaps, rounding on him. Sam stumbles from the shove given, biting back a yelp of pain as his shoulder is jostled. At least someone is watching over him and the Jiuweihu had waited to destroy their lives until after he had taken painkillers. His back flares up as well, but the pain is manageable.

Sam tries for a softer tone instead of an unwavering one. "Look, it's going to come for us. We need to keep moving."

Dean glares at him. "Then _let it come!_" he challenges. "What the hell do we do now? We just lost all we know. What do we have left?"

Sam can only think of one answer. "Nothing," he admits. "But that doesn't mean we just get to _give up_. Come on, Dean, you know better than that. Clear your head, man."

"Clear my head? _Clear my head_? Oh for fuck's sake! Yeah, Sam, just give me a minute to fucking _clear my head._ That'll do wonders." He looks at the duffel Sam brought from the fire. "Well, let's just take a nice little look at the rest of our life."

He unzips it and takes out the first two items. "Two ancient water bottles. Real nice." The jerky comes next, then the crackers. Sam watches on, his heartstrings pulling. "Oh, and look at that. One of your goddamn college brochures. Is that all you could really think about in that moment, Sam?"

Sam stays silent. There's no point in talking to Dean while he's like this.

"So, what, you have nothing to say for yourself, huh? While our life was crashing down around us, all you could think about was yourself. Geez, what was I thinking, you might actually pack clothes or some other _non-important _shit like that?"

"Clothes would slow us down," Sam says quietly. "I obviously can't carry something that heavy—I could barely manage this. You're the most mobile aside from Ihtiras right now. If something happens, I didn't want you hindered by the weight of replaceable _clothes._

"Maybe you're right. Just maybe I am that selfish and could only have one thought in my mind that entire fiasco: college. But you know what, Dean? I would do it all over again. Because we just lost everything we own, and when this is done? I'm leaving. I can't do this."

Dean laughs and shakes his head. "Selfish bastard, running away from all your problems."

"Didn't you just tell me earlier that you'd back me up on this?"

"That was before our whole life just burnt with that fire. Hell, who knows if the Impala is even going to survive that? I don't want you to leave the second this thing's over and abandon us!"

"I'm not abandoning you, Dean! I'm going to school!"

"Well it sure sounds like you're ditching us because your fragile little mind can't handle the guilt," Dean snipes. "If you were smart, you'd stay with your family."

"And if you were smart, Dean, you'd leave with me."

Silence falls upon them. Sam notices Dean handling the amulet around his neck, turning it over in his hand and running his fingers along the ridges. What he doesn't expect is for Dean to take it off, turn, and throw it in the direction of the fire. It still lands a good thirty meters away from the blaze, but the gesture tears something inside of Sam he didn't know he had.

Looks like Sam was wrong—he hadn't lost everything in the fire, because he just lost the last thing he owned right in this moment.

His brother's trust in him.

He gazes longingly at the amulet resting in the high grass and doesn't ignore the feeling of how it feels so far away. He could go and grab it, of course, but that would make himself look pitiful. Needy. Not the kind of brownie points he needs right now if he ever wants a chance at making things right between the two of them.

_I hate to interrupt_, Ihtiras begins, _but we must get a move on. I say we move north, and try and force Ramje to lose our scent._

Sam swallows, then puts on a brave face. "Ramje," he echoes. "So we finally have a name for this thing."

_Well, it's his name derived from birth, as mine is Majkel. But we all call ourselves a number of different things._

"Noted." Sam grabs the bag and puts the rest of the things scattered across the ground inside it. "Let's get gone." He throws it the best he can with one functional arm into Dean's unsuspecting hands, and then tosses his brother a pointed look. "If you're so upset about it being so little to carry, then go ahead and do the honors. Shouldn't be a problem, right?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Whatever."

They begin walking, Sam focusing his mind on putting one foot in front of the other without falling. He's exhausted. A headache is gnawing at his temples, and his various wounds are not making this any easier. They make it about ten minutes into the woods without talking before Sam has to take a knee.

The pain is stealing his breath away, and he takes a moment to regather himself. Ihtiras crouches beside him, burrowing his nose underneath Sam's arm that reminds Sam much like a domesticated dog's actions, while Dean stands off to the side, clearly impatient. It's hard not to take anything his brother said to heart, even though he knows he shouldn't. Dean'll regret it later. Lashing out is just his way of dealing with grief.

The wolf rubs its muzzle down his stomach and along his back, sniffing, causing Sam to laugh lightheartedly. It's when his muscles start to tense up and lock that he freezes as a generous warmth spreads through his body. It feels almost as though—

He rolls his long-sleeved shirt up, uncovering the injuries that should be on his body. But there's...nothing.

Sam looks sharply up at Ihtiras. "I thought—"

_Don't worry about it, young one. I couldn't heal your shoulder or some of the bruising on your back, but this should be aidful. I'll just be a little tired, is all._

Sam chances a glance at Dean, who just shrugs.

"T-Thanks."

They continue their trek. Dean tries to call their father time after time while they still have phone service, and Sam's genuinely surprised when Dean suddenly halts fifteen minutes into his attempts and says disbelievingly, "Dad?"

He puts the phone on speaker so Sam can listen in.

"_Are you boys okay?" _their father asks.

"We're fine, Dad," Dean answers for them.

Sam sighs in annoyance. "A little banged up, but we're good. The cabin is gone, though."

The phone goes quiet for an amount of time. "_What the hell is that supposed to mean?"_

"It means the Jiuweihu burnt it to the ground," Dean says. "We've got nothing except for Sam's .45."

"_Where are you now?_"

"About thirty minutes walking-distance north. Where are _you?_"

"_About fifteen minutes away from what, I guess, used to be our cabin."_

Sam sputters. How the hell is their father that close already? It was supposed to be an eight hour round-trip endeavor. There's absolutely no way that he could be that near to them already—five hours haven't even passed!

Dean asks the question.

John responds chipperly, "_I had a hunting buddy close by, so I had him go and get it. We met about halfway. I just ran into a helluva amount of traffic. I'll come find you boys as soon as I can. You say you're with the daemon?_"

"Yeah," Sam says.

"_Good. Stay safe until I can get there."_

"You know it."

Dean hangs up, then begins walking again, not looking back at Sam. He's getting really damn tired of the silent treatment. If Dean wants to be pissed at him, sure, that's fine. But on a hunt as dangerous as this one they need to be open and honest with each other for it to work out, and neither of those things are present right now.

Their minds are about as obscured as a freakin' maze.

They walk on for a little while longer and Sam starts to get dead tired. He can tell the daemon is, too, Ihtiras' movements slowing and becoming a lot less purposeful rather than the normal spring they always have.

He makes a decision. "Dean, we need to rest."

"You need to rest," his brother corrects instantly. "Go ahead. Sleep. But I'm going to keep moving."

Sam rubs a hand over his face. "Ihtiras needs rest. I need rest. You're concussed—_you_ need rest whether you realize it or not. So cut the crap, Dean, and let's take a goddamn moment."

"No."

Sam is fed up with Dean's bullshit, but knows he's not going to win this battle. While the two brothers discuss, Ihtiras lays down at Sam's feet, resting his head on Sam's bare foot, as though he's already done with their arguing.

They'd been so rushed to get out of the cabin they hadn't had the chance to grab their shoes or jackets since they were in the common room and entrance corridor. So, they've had to brace themselves for the cold and trudge on, carefully avoiding sharp sticks and brush. Which is kind of impossible in a forest like this.

"Then we need to start circling around toward the cabin again. We've got to get to Dad. If we keep continuing this way, then we're going to get lost and he's never going to get to us," Sam advises.

Dean seemingly thinks this over. "Fine." He turns around and begins walking the other way.

Stubborn ass.

Sam tries his best to keep up with Dean's military-paced march, but ends up lagging behind eventually. His shoulder is _killing_ him. The painkillers aren't enough to block off the pain entirely. But, despite the throbbing in his ears, he's been paying close attention, and it's amazing that the Jiuweihu has yet to make an appearance.

The realization barrels into him.

It's not that the Jiuweihu—or Ramje, as Ihtiras put it—is simply leaving them be. That's not it at all. Sam studies how far he and the daemon are behind Dean and the wide berth of at least thirty feet that separates them. Mostly every time the Jiuweihu has attacked, it's been to get its prey alone and without backup.

Dean is so fucking far.

The moment he hears the running in the trees to his right is when he takes off, screaming Dean's name in the process. The older brother turns around in what Sam thinks might be a fit of pique, but Dean's eyes quickly turn from vexed to horrified when the Jiuweihu leaps at him. Sam watches as Dean falls underneath the beast's weight, crushed.

He draws his pistol out as he sprints, all previous pain suddenly forgotten, and fires off three accurate shots. They all land, but Ramje doesn't even flinch, instead focused on its new dinner. Sam's soul howls as he watches the Jiuweihu's teeth lash into Dean's stomach. The feeling of loss surrounds him in a damp and cold quilt that chills him to the bone, rattling his spine. A pit digs itself into his stomach as he watches his brother scream in agony, a painful pit, one devoid of any emotion.

All Sam wants to do is collapse, shriek his pain and make sure Dean is all right, but he's still not there yet and Dean might be okay—_has_ to be okay. Right? His big brother, his _hero_, cannot fall to some stupid, _idiotic_ creature such as this one. Dean's practically inhuman—his savior and idol swirled all into one, the person who has looked out for him his entire life.

He can survive anything. Right?

Ihtiras runs as fast as possible alongside Sam, but Sam reaches Dean first anyway. Hatred overwhelms him as he tackles the Jiuweihu, forcing it off Dean's body, and he catches Ihtiras scrambling to Dean's side. Ramje doesn't seem dazed in the slightest.

Tears running down his face, Sam cries out his misery as he presses the gun to the Jiuweihu's skin and fires off the rest of his cylinder in his gun. They don't do a single thing, the bullets falling to the ground uselessly. They seem to laugh at him. Mocking his sorrow.

The Jiuweihu makes its way out from under Sam's grip as though it were the easiest thing in the world. Through stained vision and on all four limbs, Sam stares hatefully at the creature.

"You will pay for this, you asshole," he seethes, words unsteady with grief.

_Such enmity,_ Ramje observes. _You have a darkness inside you, much like myself. I can see it. You should come with me._

The fox leans down to where Sam collapsed. Sam keeps his head low, but the Jiuweihu uses its nose to lift his chin.

_You could prove useful. Things are much more complicated than you think they are._

Sam doesn't really care about what happens to him at this point, but he sure as hell knows he's not going to become this thing's bitch, or slave, or whatever else the Jiuweihu thinks it can do with him. He slowly raises his eyes to Ramje's face, who cocks his head interestedly.

"Go to hell."

He leaps, landing on the Jiuweihu once more. The creature effortlessly turns him onto his back.

_Shame._

The claws slash his side and Sam gets flashbacks of his previous night in the forest. Except...this time is much quicker. The Jiuweihu is done within ten seconds, leaving Sam a mangled mess of blood and tissue. It releases him and Sam's head falls, all of his strength leaving him in one simple _woosh._

His vision dims, but Sam forces his eyes to stay open. Lolling his head so it faces Dean, he sees his brother sit up cautiously with the help of Ihtiras. Their eyes meet and Sam instantly sees the panic invade Dean's.

He smiles. All that matters is Dean's all right.

His eyes slide shut.

* * *

Sam travels in and out of consciousness. He feels like he's floating sky-high, as though in the clouds. A few different voices surround him. One is soft, comforting, and he opens his lids slightly to catch sight of blonde hair. It falls down in curls about him. The face reflects pensiveness and understanding, features cut and developed.

He's never met her before, but he knows who she is.

"Mom?" he whispers, but there's no response. She merely strokes his face lovingly and smiles a sad, little smile that Sam wishes he could reciprocate without choking in pain. He blinks once. Mary nods, smile still curling her lips. She looks forlorn. Sam wants to know why.

He brings a hand up to her cheek when he spies a tear leaking down her face. "Sorry," is all she says, voice apologetic and sincere. What does his mother have to be sorry for, though?

Just when he's about to ask, he gasps in pain and his eyes shoot open. His mother is no longer there, instead replaced by the face of his father, concerned and petrified. Well, isn't this a nice little family reunion.

"Sam?" he hears his father ask, and goddamn he has never heard his father sound that scared before. Something must seriously be wrong.

Then his brother is there. He looks pained also, but not in the way Dad does. It's almost as though he's in physical pain, too, pale as a ghost.

He laughs. Ghost. How funny.

Sam surrenders himself to the dark.


	10. Chapter 10

The next time Sam wakes up he's in a car. That much he can discern easily—the engine rumbles loudly, and the bumps and hills on the road make each jerk to his body completely shock-inducing. He's not exactly sure what woke him up this time. Perhaps it was the arguing voices of his father and brother, or maybe the pain that drove needles through his nerves.

It's a difficult task to get his eyes fully open. He makes it happen eventually though, and surveys his lackluster surroundings. It's not the Impala, that's for sure. A moment passes as he tries to recognize the vehicle, and then realizes it's the truck. Their dad's truck.

Sam tries to speak, but the words come out unintelligible and garbled. Dean looks back at him from the passenger's seat. "Sammy?"

"Y-Y' o-okay?" Sam mumbles.

"Better off than you, little bro." The words hold no humor. "You stay with me, you hear?"

Sam tries to answer, but instead ends up having a bout of coughing overtake him. His back arches off the leather seat as he hacks, and he moves a hand to cover his mouth. When the fit subsides, he lowers his limb out of exhaustion, but doesn't fail to notice the blood covering his fingers.

Things are a lot worse than he thought.

He stays like that for a while, trying to not let himself collapse into the waiting arms of unconsciousness that seem so fucking comfortable. Probably one of the hardest battles he's ever fought.

Sam wonders what happened to the Jiuweihu, as well as Ihtiras. The wolf is nowhere to be seen, and Sam almost misses his comforting stature. Hopefully he's all right.

Just as day seems to be turning to a caliginous night, the car stops. His family has been trying to talk to him for most of the ride, but Sam can't bring himself to answer, instead steadying his focus on the trees passing by. He could do without going into those woods again.

Bright lights assault him as the backdoors open. His father's arms wrap around him and he moans in pain as he is carried bridal style. He clings onto John's shirt, not wanting to leave the man; which is ironic, due to how ready he'd been to get the hell out of dodge once this thing was over.

He's taken into a building and laid down on a soft comforter. Many more people gather around them, and Sam loses track of where Dean and his dad are. He starts to panic, memories of Dean being trapped and torn into by the Jiuweihu playing over and over in his mind. He thinks he screams Dean's name, but no older brother comes running to his aid.

A woman in a white uniform puts an oxygen mask on his face, but it does no good, because Sam is already falling to pieces all over again. Breath is too hard to get whether it is artificially supplied or not, and he feels hot tears run down his face.

_Where is Dean?_

* * *

He must've passed out again, because the next time he wakes up things are much more clear. Sam can tell he's in a hospital bed now. The roof he's staring at is stark white, and the smell of sanitary products is overwhelming.

He looks around to find his father sitting in a chair next to his bed, head in his hands. When Sam shifts slightly, John glances up in surprise. He quickly hides it, though, leaning over to push the call button on Sam's headboard.

"Hey, son," he says, and his voice sounds strained.

Sam works his tongue around his dry mouth, and says the only thing that's on his mind. "Where's Dean?"

Because if his father is with _him_ instead of Dean, then there is something seriously wrong going on.

"He's fine," John says, but doesn't elaborate, which—hell no, that is not going to fucking do. Sam wants to know where exactly Dean is, because if he was able to, Dean would be in this room right now with Sam.

"Where," Sam asks again, tone deadly, making it not even seem a question.

John sighs. "He's in recovery from surgery. As are you. But he's all right."

"Bullshit. I want to see him."

"Hospital denied it."

"Why aren't you with him?"

"You were in more critical condition."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, right. I'm not the one who got tackled by a friggin' fox the size of a lion."

"But you _are_ the one who fractured your wrist and collarbone, broke three ribs, and had to get one-hundred-twenty stitches to repair muscle damage and a tear in your liver," John hisses. "Your brother has a concussion and a few cuts on his stomach."

Sam falls silent. He could care less about his own injuries. It's Dean's that worry him.

He closes his eyes as he thinks back to what happened. He'd seen Dean fall, and just...exploded. And what Ramje had said to Sam before he began tearing into him…

He didn't want to think about it.

"Where's Ihtiras?" Sam wonders. "Is he okay?"

John laughs. "Oh how the times have changed, becoming friends with the supernatural." He shrugs. "The daemon is fine, to my knowledge. The Jiuweihu is dead. As soon as it attacked you, the daemon launched itself at it. I'd heard the gunshots and managed to make it just as the Jiuweihu was about to pounce. The distraction was enough." He smiled. "You were right. Stabbing it in its tail did the trick."

"Good to know." He doesn't care. "Now let me see Dean."

His father nods. "I'll go and see."

* * *

Sam ends up having to stay in the hospital for a full week, against his protests. Dean was discharged a few days beforehand, and came to see him as soon as possible. The staff were stubborn in their desire to keep the brothers apart, which is why Dean insisted he be released against medical advice.

Sam, on the other hand, still has to use a cane. Plenty of jokes came with it, but walking was such a difficulty with the amount of stitches on his body that he felt he deserved a damn rest.

Casey also ends up coming to see him, which is a shock—turns out his formal cause of injury was due to a bear attack while he was out hiking. They had a short conversation on the things he'd missed out on, such as Noah's funeral and the consequences Trey faced. Without Sam there to testify, Trey was released with all charges dropped against him, which pleased Sam. An innocent kid should not be sent to jail for a supernatural creature's wrongdoing.

Sam had to tell her that he was leaving, which was difficult, but it turned out she already knew. Dean had told her the news a few days prior. So, they wrapped it up with a small kiss, a farewell, and a hug.

Currently, the Winchesters are making their way back to the cabin—or what used to be their cabin. Arriving at their destination, Sam gets out of the car with help, and the first thing he sees past the rubble is the Impala. Ash covers her frame, but she's as beautiful as ever.

John decides to look around for any surviving things while Sam and Dean make their way to the site of the Jiuweihu's demise—the corpse had to be burned. As they walked through the brush, it was mostly silent. Dean eventually starts up a conversation. They haven't talked much since the incident, or about the incident at all, but he supposes now is as good a time as any.

"I'm sorry."

Sam knows exactly what he's talking about. They keep walking.

Eventually, Sam says, "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know," Dean says tiredly. "Anything would be a start."

"Why'd you do it?" he asks sincerely. "Throw the amulet away. Put everybody in danger. I've never seen you that reckless."

They come to a stop at Ramje's body. Its tails are draped around its corpse, eyes closed and face bloody. Probably from Sam's blood, in fact. What catches Sam's eye, though, is the small gold penchant laying in the grass beside it.

"Speaking of…"

Dean leans down and picks it up. It's the amulet, the one that was thrown toward the fire. Ihtiras must have retrieved it, but the wolf is nowhere to be seen now. Sam almost wishes he would return so he could get the chance to thank him for everything he had done for their family.

"I'm sorry," Dean says again, putting the necklace back to its rightful place. He picks up the can of gasoline and pops the cap off.

"Yeah. Me too." Dean pours the liquid over the black cadaver vigorously. "I'm not leaving, you know."

Dean looks at Sam and raises a single eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Not yet at least," he continues.

"Why the change of heart?"

Sam exhales and licks his lips. When the salt is completely poured over the Jiuweihu, he lights the match and drops it. The body catches fire immediately, burning away its fur and wrinkled skin.

"Ramje said something to me, Dean, and I don't know what to think of it."

"Whatever that dick said was probably just to mess with you, Sammy. Just forget—"

"No," Sam snaps. "He asked me to _join_ him."

Dean backtracks in his words. "What?"

"He said things were a lot bigger than I knew. That I had this _darkness_ inside of me and I could be useful."

An expression of thought crosses Dean's face. Sam watches, heart sinking. "I don't know," Dean says at last. "But we don't need to worry about it, okay?"

They watch the flames. "Why?"

"Because," Dean says, and then smirks. "You have me. And nothing is going to get to you as long as I'm around."

Sam shakes his head and chuckles, but can't help but feel like something is watching them. Like there's something else there...around...lurking. And like there's something inside of him—darkness, as the Jiuweihu said.

But then, he looks at Dean, and all his worries crumble away. Because Dean's right. All they really need is each other.

* * *

On the edge of the woods, a man stalks. He studies the daemon, who in turn is watching the Winchester brothers burn the corpse of the nine-tailed fox. Oh, how they shall pay. He gets on one knee before he starts the duties he knows he must begin and puts a hand in the dirt. He shan't forget the sacrifices Ramje made to this cause, and the things it cost him.

But the creature was foolish. Got too eager to make a move, and played his cards too fast. The man looks at the two unsuspecting boys.

The taller one, the one who was injured more grievously, was strong. He could sense it. An asset—something that could be vital to his plan. The Jiuweihu had seen this, too, and the more the man thinks about it, the more he can see how it can seriously be put toward his and his method's benefit.

But first...

Carefully stepping as to make no noise, he comes to stand behind the wolf. Handling the purified blade derived straight from Tuvalu, he smirks. The Winchesters thought they knew how to kill this beast, but they were misled. _He _knows everything, though.

The daemon doesn't even see it coming.

Nobody hears the body collapse.

* * *

_And there we go! Thanks to anyone who stuck with this, IF there was anybody that stuck with this. I mostly stopped posting because I lost confidence in if it was any good or not—and who knows, it's probably not. But if I can help on person enjoy it, then there's no harm in uploading the rest._

_It would be lovely to know what you thought about it in a review. I was proud of this story when I first wrote it, but I don't know, it feels less special to me now because I'm starting to doubt myself. _

_Either way, the ending is ambiguous because I was planning on leaving it up to whether I wanted to do a sequel or not. I still might. It's not completely out of the question. If you guys are interested, let me know! Otherwise, I've been writing a new story in the MCU for some Irondad and Spiderson on AO3 called Contentiously Amiable, if that's your cup of tea._

_Thank you for all the support, and I hope everybody is staying safe in this tricky and confusing time!_

_Love y'all,_

_KToonX_


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